


There Will Be Blood

by SanguisCaedis (TheAstronomer)



Category: Dracula (TV 2020)
Genre: Coffin sex, Eventual Smut, F/M, Masturbation, More random tags than you can shake a stick at, Non-Consensual Blood Drinking, Nuns, Scotland, Shady lawyers, Shady nuns, Shady scientists, Slow-ish burn, Snark, Sun Worship, Vampire humour is bad, Vampires
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-01-08
Updated: 2020-08-19
Packaged: 2021-02-27 08:40:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 10
Words: 26,288
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22174207
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheAstronomer/pseuds/SanguisCaedis
Summary: "Count Dracula was chaos, and she was order. That much was simple to Agatha, it was the details which were more complicated."Agatha Van Helsing has some theories about Count Dracula she would like to explore further. Her exploration of his motivations and foibles will lead her on quite the journey for a nun who should have been a scientist. AKA Agatha and Dracula like to bicker.
Relationships: Dracula/Agatha Van Helsing, Dracula/Zoe Van Helsing
Comments: 256
Kudos: 503





	1. Chapter 1

“Oh Agatha. You just wanted to get me all on your own, didn’t you?” 

The situation they were in, was certainly alone. Twenty dead nuns, a decapitated Mother Superior and the shed skin of the unfortunate Jonathan Harker, meant they were certainly _alone._ Mina had been sent off screaming into the night, although the sight of her Johnny Blue Eyes being peeled like an overripe orange must have been disconcerting, Agatha conceded. She glanced at the pooled strips of human skin on the dusty floor of her dim workshop. 

_Fascinating._

Fascinating, the way it was so much easier for the Count to rip himself free from the physical confines of Harker, than it was from the wolf, earlier in this remarkable evening – an altogether more painful-looking, arduous task, or so it had appeared. 

_Click, click, click_ went Agatha Van Helsing’s brain. Storing away facts in the neat compartments of her mind, the process as automatic and practiced as a nun might genuflect at an altar. 

“Oh please. Enough with the cliches, Count. Don’t you ever get tired of them?” 

Dracula smiled at her, head cocked, apparently delighted at her retort. Teeth, crooked and rimmed in blood. Agatha peered closer – she would like to see them sharpen and lengthen, observe the physical process of that particular facet of transformation – the direct equivalent of a human male becoming sexually excited, she surmised. Surely tissue and sinew which was 400 years old would ache as it bent, snapped and rent itself into new form – was pain or pleasure involved, or maybe … both? 

_Basic knowledge, Agatha,_ she remonstrated herself, _concentrate._

Count Dracula was chaos, and she was order. That much was simple to Agatha, it was the details which were more complicated. She realised Dracula was waiting for her to speak again, the sunny smile playing around his lips showing no signs of dimming. _Sunny!_ Agatha snorted to herself. She brought her scientific focus back onto the creature before her, training the microscope of her brain onto him. 

“Did that hurt, Count?” She flipped a hand towards the slightly steaming pile of skin which used to be Jonathan Harker, already starting to shrivel amongst the disks of sacramental bread. 

“Well, it hurt _him,_ I’d imagine.” Dracula chuckled, pleased at his own quip and nothing more, flicking a piece of eyelid off his collar. He hadn’t even considered a different answer, Agatha knew. 

“DO you imagine, Count? What pain is like?” 

“Would you like me to, Sister Agatha?” His infernal smile was irritating Agatha, scratching at the edge of her temper. 

“You are not capable!” she spat. As always in anger, her accent sharpened, making the words brittle and clipped. 

“You certainly do like to throw down the gauntlet, don’t you? Are you the youngest in your family? They are _always_ the most irritating – I had a little brother once...” He paused. 

Interesting that he should spontaneously refer back to his time as a human – Agatha stored this away too. 

“I also had a serving girl once, like you, always challenging me, never knew when to stop. She was obsessed with me too.” 

“Ugh, another cliché, Count. Drinking the blood of your servants – taking advantage of your power, in the most unimaginative way? Does it never get boring? Besides, no-one could be as obsessed with you, as you are with yourself.” 

Dracula frowned, clearly not listening. Tapping his teeth with those awful nails, as though he were considering something. Perhaps dredging up some long-dead memory through the layers of blood it was drowned in. 

“Oh no, Agatha. No, no, no. I didn’t drink her blood. This was _before_. When I was still, uh, like you. Strange that I should remember it now, hm?” He clapped his hands together and gave a cheerful bark of laughter. “Reminiscing is _such_ fun. But you asked if I can imagine what pain is, didn’t you?” 

Agatha sighed and adjusted her wimple. This creature _loved_ the sound of his own voice. But she noted he seemed unable to refer to himself as being formerly human. She would let him talk, even though she knew what he would say – it bought her time, at least. 

“I choose whether to inflict pain on those I feed from, or not. Why do you think I would do that? Because I am aware of pain.” 

“I imagine it makes them easier to feed on,” Agatha snapped. “No struggling and such-like. Don’t try to persuade me otherwise!” 

“I can’t win with you, can I?” 

He moved closer to her. He was remarkably odourless, for someone who should, by the natural order of things, quite literally smell like death. Agatha was ablaze with the curiosity of what his skin might feel like. Cold? Hard? Warm after taking blood? Pliable and soft, perhaps, a simulacrum of the lifeforce he would drain? Agatha guessed he may have been around fifty when he was changed – he had been no young boy. There were lines and scars, the texture of his skin had been starting to roughen, a little, loosen, while he was still human. His physique was that of a man who had been a warrior, but he must have been nearing the end of his military career. 

“You see this as a game?” 

“Certainly. Or you would be dead by now. Don’t be naïve.” 

Agatha could not deny, although it was not a game to her, per se, there _had_ been the ring of truth in Mother Superior’s description of it as “one of Agatha’s secret projects”. For Agatha must have her projects. The life of a nun was simply not enough, especially once the actual belief in God had long faded. She was just in the disguise of a nun, really. 

“Who are you?” said Dracula, again. A repeat of the question he had thrown at her through the gate of the convent. When the warm spatter of her blood on the ground had been a triumph which had tightened her chest, made her smile till her cheeks hurt. He had admitted that she provoked him, and this had sweetened it so, so much. Pride, such a deadly sin. 

“I got a taster of you, through the blood, but not enough.” He lowered his head and sniffed her, actually _sniffed_ her, like a dog, his face twitching. There was a low rumble rising from his chest, accompanied by laboured breathing - not quite panting - but not far off. 

Agatha rolled her eyes. 

“Count, you are getting carried away with yourself. AGAIN.” But she felt his fingers clutch her waist, hard, through the rough material of her habit. 

“But I need … more,” he muttered, more to himself, the edge of a whine in the last word. “Ahh, I need more.” 

Now Agatha was able to witness, close up, the process of Dracula’s teeth lengthening and sharpening: a preparation to tear through her skin. To puncture her carotid artery. It was a smooth growth, a slight audible crackle as the sharpest set came to a point. _So fascinating._

“Oh Agatha,” he sighed, desire making his voice slow and deep, drugged with lust. “I am going to take you on _such_ a journey with me. And I am going to make you last.” 

“You will take me nowhere, Count. I come willingly, in the name of discovery, and science, and …" 

But it was none of those things, and just sheer horror which Agatha felt, in those last few moments when she realised she could not stop what was about to happen. She could wrestle back some control in the only way she knew how. She took a step back from him and loosened her wimple, the cold air hitting her neck a shock. 

“Come, boy, suckle.” 

Then he was on her like a dervish and all of Agatha’s senses were blown apart at once, her back crushed against the stone wall of her workshop. Her blood streaming down her own neck and being noisily guzzled by Dracula – a cacophany of grunts, slurps and moans which vibrated against her chest. And the pain was there, he had not extended the courtesy of a pain-free feed to her. _Petty_ , like a human, after all. 

“You,” she gasped, “are a disgusting eater! Like a pig at a trough!” 

“Such a plentiful trough,” he gurgled, pulling away from her momentarily, his face slashed with a bloody grin. “Such a bountiful trough.” 

It was then that Agatha became aware of the hard ridge pressed into her abdomen, somewhat further down than there ought to have been. It had been quite some time since Agatha had felt such a protruberance, for although she had entered the order years ago, she had not entered it exactly pure. It seemed the break in the feeding frenzy had also alerted Dracula to something unusual in their encounter – Agatha watched with interest, even through her agony, the confusion playing across the Count’s face. He was so easy to read, really. 

“Well,” he murmured, smearing blood messily across his face with the back of his hand and looking down at the undeniable physical evidence of male human lust between them. “ _That’s_ not happened before...” 

But Agatha had no chance to reflect, for he was back upon her, and this time, he took her down into a dreamscape with him, where a vampire with an erection was the last thing on her mind. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agatha lays out her proposal to Count Dracula.

Agatha had to claw her way back to consciousness, pushing her way out through the mud of her dreams. She was aware of motion, the smell of the sea, the distant clanging of a bell. Footsteps and muted voices somewhere out of sight. A ship! So the Count’s journey was both figurative _and_ literal. 

Agatha felt as though she were floating free of herself, somewhere up in the far corner of the cabin she lay in – ah, she could even see herself! A huddled, bruised scarecrow in a stained habit. Her wimple and head-dress long gone, strands of her hair matted onto the wound in her neck. 

_What a sight, Agatha! Pull yourself together!_

“You _are_ rather bedraggled, Agatha,” came a mocking voice from the darkness near the narrow bunk she lay on. Just outwith the dim arc of light cast by the lamp, she could discern, barely, the figure of Dracula. 

“Stop lurking in the shadows, Count. There is no need to play the coquette with me.” 

“Quite so, Agatha,” he replied, shifting into the circle of light. “I should not deny you the glorious sight of me.” 

Agatha noted his expensive clothes, sharply tailored, black (of course), and worn as naturally as the preposterous grin on his face. 

“Hm, I see you dressed for dinner,” croaked Agatha, fingering the barely healed gash on her neck. Every part of her body protested at its current predicament as the swell and sway of the boat’s motion threatened to send her off into unconsciousness once more. With effort, Agatha pushed herself upright in the bunk. She must gather her wits. 

“Oh I have eaten already,” said the Count breezily. “I made sure I had sufficient provisions for the journey. I believe our Scandanavian friends might call it a smorgasbord.” He smiled toothily. “Though there is always room for dessert.” 

“We are not alone, then?” 

Agatha began to clear the fog from her mind – a ship, passengers, or at least crew, and a journey, long enough to need provisions: these appeared to be the facts so far. She must centre herself, ground herself, in place and time. 

“We are two of seven passengers on the good ship Demeter, bound for Whitby harbour, England.” Dracula frowned suddenly. “Ah, sorry, my mistake, we are now a party of five.” He ran his tongue over his teeth thoughtfully, his head lifted towards the ceiling of the cabin and the deck above it. 

“I see. And you do seem to have left traces of your meal trapped in your teeth. Please deal with it, it is most off-putting.” 

“Mm, I perhaps bolted my food, do forgive me.” He grinned, hooking shreds of flesh from his teeth with a sharp fingernail. 

“Predictable in your greed, Count, like an unprincipled child. _Were_ you ever a child? The worse kind, I imagine – spoiled and indulged at every turn.” 

At this, Dracula turned his head sharply towards her, his eyes narrowing. Agatha spotted a flare of some emotion reflected in the features of his face, twisting his mouth. _Aha._ Hitting the nerve of his past human condition. 

“Quite the opposite as it happens,” he snapped. “I was trained to kill as a human too, from the youngest possible age. A harsh education. Several lifetimes ago now, of course.” 

Agatha hummed briefly as she considered Dracula as a child, a human child. _No, do not fall into that trap, Agatha._ Forcing her mind back to the present situation, she established a few further facts: it was clear she was trapped, with the murderous Count, and an unfortunate human buffet on a ship heading for England. It seemed obvious to Agatha that her only option was to continue her study of the beast in an attempt to build a picture of his motivations, and even more importantly, his _weaknesses._

Agatha's eyes wandered to the basin of water and cloth on the small shelf next to her bunk. 

“Pass me that cloth, Count. I want to wash this gore off my neck – you have made quite the mess of me.” 

“Please, allow me. It’s the least I can do. I can be nurse, yes?” 

Agatha followed his movements carefully as he delicately rung out the cloth, before moving her head to one side to allow him access to the wound. Such gentle ministrations, dabbing at the congealed blood and rinsing the cloth when needed. She sighed and closed her eyes momentarily, enjoying the sensation. 

But then, and she cursed her mistake, it was almost too late that Agatha noticed the way Dracula’s chest heaved with some great suppressed effort, the way his pupils dilated to almost obscure his irises, and how the irises themselves became ringed with blood. The transformation into the beast was complete with the manifestation of the fangs. The hand which had just passed cleansing water over her wound, now tightened around her jaw. 

“Oh, now. No. You have just cleaned me up. No! I might have guessed this would … CONTROL yourself, Count!” 

But it seemed he was already beyond words or reason and with a rabid snarl, Dracula fell upon her again, clambering onto the narrow bunk to press himself down on her and tear into the aching flesh of her throat. Agatha pummelled the Count's back, thrashing against the weight of his dense body. 

“Count Dracula, you must stop! Listen to me!” 

Agatha could feel the pull of the dream state waiting to claim her back: the opiate of his bite spreading it’s venom. His heavy frame caged her, as though he was forged in iron, and she began the long spiral downwards, her struggles diminishing. 

_Damn him to hell!_

Abruptly, Agatha once more burst through the still surface of her unconsciousness with a gasp – Dracula was motionless, head bowed against her shoulder. He had evidently ceased his feed, Agatha noted, and he panted heavily for a few seconds before groaning: “Oh not this, _again!_ It is SO distracting!” 

“Not to mention uncomfortable,” retorted Agatha, shifting her pinioned hips against the pelvis of the Count, whose inconvenient and all too human erection, was once more nudging insistently at the gathered material of the habit between her legs. 

_How perfectly_ _intriguing._

“This is not a normal feature of your feeding process then, Count?” Agatha propped herself up on her elbows, ignoring the searing pain in her neck. Her brain began to methodically sort through theories, ideas, notions. 

“Of course not!” he scoffed. 

“Do not sound so insulted, Count. Don’t you see the ramifications of this? The possibilities for what it may mean?” 

Dracula sighed and shifted away from Agatha, perching instead on the edge of the bunk. 

“Absolutely not. At this moment in time, it is merely interrupting my nightcap. See? Now it has spoiled my appetite.” 

“It has? How very interesting. No, don’t pout. You no longer wish to drink my blood? Do you feel any other… urges?” 

“Agatha!” 

“Tell me Count, were you sexually active in life?” 

“Was I …?” Dracula reared back from Agatha, apparently affronted at the question. 

_As_ _prickly and_ _proud alive as undead,_ _obviously_ _._ Agatha folded her arms and waited. 

“Look at me, what do _you_ think?!” 

Agatha spread her hands and shrugged. 

“I am a nun, you’re asking the wrong person.” 

“I had women falling over themselves to get to me. Oh, men too. A wife, several lovers – and as a result, many, _many_ brats. If I was not fighting, I was fucking.” There was a faraway look in the Count’s eyes, now returned to their customary dark brown. 

“Very manly, I’m sure. But that sexual urge was then superseded by the bloodlust?” 

“Well, obviously. I have no use for sex.” But Agatha could sense his perturbation. Evidently, he was not used to questioning anything about himself - he just _was._ In and of himself, a force shrouded in the stolen blood and lives of others. Or was he? 

They were both lost in thoughts for a few moments before Dracula broke the silence. 

“Ah, I understand now, Agatha.” He stood up from the bunk, loosening his collar then wagging his finger at her. “You wish to glean some essence of humanity from me, I think? Foolish. I assure you there is none. I am fiend incarnate, affiliated only with darkness. There is no redeeming me.” 

“Yes, yes, enough of the purple prose,” said Agatha irritably, reaching for the cloth to rub away the last traces of blood. “I know, you are quite damned, _that_ is not in question. It is just a theory of mine that some sense of the human may linger. Whether it is yours, or stolen from your victims is another matter. As a scientist of sorts, if I have a hypothesis, it is standard procedure to test it.” 

Dracula let out a great loud guffaw. 

“A scientist _and_ a nun, how very droll. An oxymoron surely? You do amuse me, Agatha.” He whirled his hand impatiently. “Well, let’s hear it then.” 

Agatha threw the dirty cloth into the basin of water, pushed her hair back from her face and gathered her thoughts. 

“I propose an experiment, Count. You will feed from me until … if … the same physical reaction occurs. Then you will stop drinking my blood at that precise moment, and we will proceed in the normal human way, that your body appears to be … demanding. We will keep the two processes strictly separate.” 

The Count’s incredulity was palpable. 

“Ridiculous! Why would I do such a thing?!” 

“If I must submit to your vampiric desire for blood then you must submit to my human desire for knowledge. Quid pro quo, Count.” 

“Must I? Agatha, I think you are forgetting something here?” He clicked his fingers in front of her face. “The fact I could end you like _that_!” 

“Must you always be so dramatic?” Agatha sighed. “I am talking of a simple exchange. And you will not "end me". We both know that you will binge your way through this ship like the pig you are. You need me as reserves.” 

But the Count was not listening. He was smacking his lips together as a vintner might taste a new batch. 

“Mmm, and you are well versed in porcine ways, aren’t you? Young Agatha, growing up on a pig farm in dreary Holland. Desperate to escape the stench, the monotony, the fumbled approaches by farmhands who learned how to fuck by watching the pigs. Oh _dear._ I taste the frustration, you know. All that thwarted desire." 

“That is none of your business. And you have an unfair advantage!” 

“So I must know nothing of you while laying myself bare to you? You hide nothing from me. It’s all there. In the blood.” He laviciously sucked a few drops of blood from his forefinger, his dark eyes trained on hers. 

“You see, it is so fascinating to me. You use standard techniques of seduction but your aim is not intercourse.” Agatha murmured. “But what if it was taken to its natural conclusion...?” 

“And what would _you_ know of techniques of seduction, Agatha!” retorted the Count, piqued. 

“You saw in me what you want to see. You don’t look all that closely, do you? Careless, careless. I fear there is no scientific mind in there, after all.” 

“There will be … just give me time,” muttered Dracula distractedly, removing his exquisitely tailored waistcoat. 

“Now, please tell me, how will you be able to bring yourself to have sex with such a hideous and odious fiend as me? You will fuck a monster in the name of research?” His tone dripped sarcasm. 

“You need not worry about that. Although, I suppose when you do not have human flesh caught in your teeth, you are not ugly. Externally, at least.” 

Agatha sat up, suffused with the excitement she always experienced when about to embark on a more challenging project. She sensed his interest starting to develop. 

“Come, Count, where is your sense of adventure?! Prove to me what I believe of you: that you wish to be a man of science and not just a creature cloaked in superstition!” 

“Mm, perhaps a novel way for me to penetrate the spiritus sanctus is just the ticket to liven up an already entertaining journey.” 

Count Dracula stripped off his remaining clothes until he stood before Agatha, bare as the day he was born. 

“Shall we chart new lands together, Agatha? A journey within a journey?” 

Agatha nodded once, sharply. 

“Quite so, Count. But perhaps in a less theatrical way. Let us proceed.” 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agatha tests her theory.
> 
> AKA A Chapter Of Snarky Smut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to my wonderful fic wife, Wysiwygot, for feedback and guidance on this chapter.

“You are very persuasive Agatha. Infuriating, but persuasive.” 

Count Dracula was folding his clothes neatly and placing them upon the small chair in the corner of the cabin. He was completely unabashed at his nakedness, which was just as Agatha would expect – she had already witnessed this behaviour in their encounter outside the convent. _No shame_ , as Mother Superior had spat, accusingly. Still, it was a novelty to observe the dandy Count attend to his garments with such care, as though he _wasn't_ a lethal demon. 

“That you can be seduced, of sorts, by bare logic, Count, is a good thing. It shows the capability to learn, to grow. I hope.” 

“Goodness and hope? That doesn’t sound very scientific, Agatha. Maybe you are still caught between the nun and the scientist – what a strange chimera you are! Now, _bare_ logic, I c _an_ put my trust in.” He smiled lazily, spreading his arms wide before her. Dracula seemed to fill the cabin entirely with his raw nudity. 

“Exhibitionism is rarely born of confidence,” stated Agatha baldly, as she ran her eyes over the tall, vigorous figure before her. The last time she had had the chance to examine the body of the Count, he had been smeared with the bloody remains of a wolf, obscuring the finer details. 

“I am comfortable in my skin. And, er, also in other people's, as it turns out.” He gave a dark chuckle. “Poor old Johnny.” 

Agatha tutted. _S_ _o v_ _ery_ _d_ _elighted with himself_. 

“Jonathan Harker showed bravery at every turn. Perhaps _that_ is what you sought in him.” 

Dracula shrugged, flippant. 

“Well, he’s dead now, isn’t he? Bravery got him nowhere.” 

“Hm, perhaps. But bravery alone does not prevent death, nor falter in the face of it.” This was a facet of Dracula which Agatha would like to consider further: the concept of bravery. But later. “Tell me, what is that scar on your hip, Count?” 

Agatha _had_ in fact been appraising Count Dracula’s penis (preliminary result: neither large, nor small, an entirely normal specimen, uncircumcised) when she noticed the scar; jagged, silvery as a spider's web and spanning the flat plane of his hip bone. Obtained in life, surely, and evidence of the human frailty he was once subject to. 

“Oh, this? A Turk with a bad aim.” His long fingers caressed the haphazard striations of the scar. “Most of them were hopeless with a mace, luckily.” 

Dracula's hand continued its path, tracking smoothly across his abdomen, as he smirked at Agatha. 

“I do believe it is customary to take off your clothing for what we are about to do, Agatha.” 

“Not necessarily. You can just rearrange my clothing in order to … gain access.” 

“Oh no, no, no. What did you call it earlier – quid pro quo? I would _love_ to see what’s under that drab old habit. I have a notion you are all legs, like a nervy deer, and with a fine soft pelt that I might stroke.” Dracula laced his hands together and jerked his chin at Agatha’s clothing. “Off, please, my little doe.” 

“Oh, very well!” snapped Agatha peevishly. She stood from the bunk, swaying slightly then regaining balance, and drew the slightly ragged blue dress off over her head, before perfunctorily removing her utilitarian underwear (“Ah, _delightful”_ sighed Dracula. “So practical, so _you_ , Agatha.”) She refused to feel shame, this was a natural state for humans, after all, but Dracula’s gaze was still unsettling. They were now standing so very close in the confines of the cabin, but where Agatha might have expected to feel some warmth or sense of life emanate from another person, there was only a curious absence. Expected, but still quietly horrifying. 

The Count reached his hand out, rubbing a thumb firmly over the flesh of Agatha’s waist, once, before withdrawing it again. Agatha could not prevent the tremor which passed through her, and gave an irritated huff. 

“What a very lovely animal you are, Agatha. Look at how the rope belt has marked your precious skin, like a chain on a puppy.” He indicated the bunk with its disordered blankets. “Shall we? Off with these, too, I think.” 

He twitched the bedclothes onto the floor which left the bed bare; the clean slate of a laboratory table, ready for its work to begin. Agatha smiled with the satisfaction of the analogy. 

_Be brave._

She took a deep fortifying breath and lay back down, shimmying her hips into a comfortable position. With preternatural speed, the Count was on her, crouched between her parted legs. 

“Well, here we are, Sister Van Helsing,” he breathed into her ear, running his nose along her throat. “I’m not sure Mother Superior would approve, you know. She had no head for scientific research though, did she?” 

“Desist with the dreadful puns and remember the rules, Count.” 

“Ye-es. So, I must focus my attention here …" He ran a hand along her flank and across to twist his fingers in the tangle of hair between her legs, stroking her briefly. Agatha twitched, batting his hand away reflexively. “Ah! Very responsive. But I am not permitted to take my fill … here?” His tongue ran up the cord of her throat. 

“Quite correct. But you may have a small feed to provide the necessary stimulus you require. Now please proceed. I am ready.” 

“You are s _uch_ a romantic, Agatha.” Dracula looked down fondly at her. “And, yes, I could feel your readiness." He ran his finger across his lip thoughtfully. “I think both the mind _and_ the flesh are willing.” 

The prick of his teeth came swiftly and Agatha steeled herself, clutching onto the brace his arms had formed around her. She noted the feel of his flesh, partly malleable, but with a rigidity underneath which was beyond bone. Also hoarded away later for Agatha’s consideration, was the way warmth flooded his skin as he drank; heat borrowed from her own blood, no doubt. And yes, _there,_ on cue, was the reaction she expected – the Count hardening against the skin of her navel, a sensation Agatha had not experienced for some time before this encounter. 

“Now, Count, do it now!” hissed Agatha, wrapping her legs around his waist and thrusting her pelvis up against his. Dracula drew back from her throat with an audible and moist _pop_ before plunging himself deeply inside Agatha, growling like a wild animal. She felt as though the top of her head might immediately blow off, the sensation of being filled so completely and suddenly almost other-worldly in its intensity. 

_Hold steady,_ she told herself, as Dracula began to thrust, jaggedly at first, but with increasing power and rhythm, his forehead pressed against her shoulder. 

“This is ...” he grunted. 

“Yes?” Agatha craned her neck to look at the Count's face – his expression flitting between incredulous and amused. 

“...quite something!” 

“Yes! Tell me how you feel, Count. Does _this_ enhance the sensation?” Agatha almost wished she had a notebook and pencil to hand. She rolled her hips experimentally, meeting his next thrust; drawing a long guttural moan from the Count and an unexpected gasp from her own mouth. 

“Let's just say, it’s all coming back to me.” 

He held her hips down, seemingly in order to buck himself deeper inside her, and Agatha felt something begin to bloom deep inside, a rushing river threatening to break its banks. She became alarmingly aware of the way one of her hands convulsively clutched the muscle of his neck, the other threaded into his hair. Desperately, she cast her mind back, into the dim past of the family pig farm, when her father gave her the most mundane and tedious task of trudging around the pig sheds with an ink stained ledger, recording stock. A repetitive task of counting the animals who squabbled in pens, a constantly shifting, shit-stained mass of life. 

_1, 2, 3, 4 ..._

She would not allow herself to react to way Dracula was handling her body. This was about collecting and measuring information, nothing more. 

But unfortunately, Agatha had never been one to accept tedium, the boring repetition of routine – always seeking distraction, challenge. And so her memory naturally segued from the dreary task of counting pigs to the sun-warmed barn: the ethereal motes of dust caught fleetingly in bright shards of light, and the deep, sweet aroma of fresh hay where Agatha had rolled, in a constant state of unfulfilled sexual arousal, with Wilhelm, the boy who prepared the pigswill. Always just, _just_ on the edge; her body teetering on a precipice of pleasure. 

“Wilhelm!?”roared the Count abruptly, hauling Agatha’s mind back to the present. Instantly, his fangs shot out, and his eyes, flooded with blood, bored into hers. “What is this Dutch yokel doing in bed with us?” 

“Stay OUT of my mind, Count. We are supposed to be replicating a human experience here.” 

“Agatha, I do not share! We are not taking part in a fucking _menage_ _a_ _trois_ here!” 

“Well, perhaps if you could do something about the snarling, and the, umm ... _face_ , I would not have to!” 

Dracula gave a disgusted snort and with great effort stilled himself. Agatha became engrossed as the sharp points of his teeth retracted and the blood drained from his eyes. However she had little time to make any internal notes on the process of this reversal - Dracula deftly rolled them both over, and Agatha found herself atop the Count, who smiled up delightedly at her. He was still rooted deeply inside her, and Agatha felt herself tighten around him. _A purely biological response,_ she calmly recited to herself, though feeling anything but calm. _Nothing more._

“Ride me, Agatha,” Dracula whispered. “Use me...” 

And against her better judgement, Agatha did just that, the dam of her mind breaking - her hands pressed up against the low ceiling above the bunk, her knees clenched around his hips. She rose and fell on the cradle of his pelvis, as his hands stroked down the long plane of skin between her breasts, circling the dip of her navel. 

“Such a beautiful pelt, little deer. And how could I have forgotten these?” Dracula sighed, rolling his thumbs over her nipples while Agatha arched her back involuntarily. He leaned up and took one into his mouth. 

“Careful,” warned Agatha, her voice shaky, as his still-warm tongue snaked around the delicate peak and he moaned, the sound buzzing against her ribs. He laughed softly, his hands on her hips encouraging her continued movement. 

“No, I am enjoying this entirely mortal experience enough, Agatha. Now, what if I do this?” He slid his hand down between her legs, to where their bodies met and pressed his thumb at that most sensitive juncture, already throbbing in painful pleasure. “I seem to remember Irini particularly enjoyed this.” 

“Irini?” gasped Agatha, the last sentient part of her brain struggling to maintain control. 

“The little serving girl I told you about. She was a quick learner.” He pushed harder with his thumb, a tight circling motion making Agatha feel she was on the verge of madness, heat boiling up from a source she had been entirely unaware of. 

“It is those who cling to reason hardest, who unravel fastest when faced with undeniable illogic. Are you going to unravel for me, Agatha?” 

“Do you _ever_ shut up?!” panted Agatha, but she was already starting to tip over that illusive precipice, where she had been balanced so precariously, careering downwards, her head thrown back and a low keen, unrecognisable as herself, bubbling up from her throat. 

“ _La petite mort ._..” murmured Dracula. “I’ve always liked the French language. Look at you go!” And then he tensed, thrusting up powerfully, his grip tightening on her hipbones, his own release coming hard on the tail of her own. Such a very expressive face for one who had been dead for several centuries. 

It took them both several minutes to recover, Agatha heaving exhaustedly against his chest, the Count in thoughtful (and blessed) silence. She was aware must take account of her blood loss, there was a weakness infiltrating her bones. But first, to gather some information from Dracula. 

“Did it tally with your past, human, experience of the act, Count?” She stood from the bunk, and pulled the discarded habit back on - _there,_ now she felt more herself. 

“I may have been a little rusty, Agatha, it _has_ been a few centuries,” said Dracula petulantly. “It didn’t seem to matter in the end, anyway. We both reached our “natural conclusion” as you call It, I believe. What? I can see you want to ask something else?” 

Agatha tapped her teeth with a fingernail. 

“Tell me about your respiratory processes? Are they necessary? I assume not, as a beating heart is not a requirement for a creature like you.” 

Dracula rolled onto his side and peered up at Agatha, lounging as lazily as some huge smug cat. 

“No, just a habit. Something which seems to comfort people – oh, a bit like _your_ habit.” He tugged at the sleeve of the increasingly ragged garment. “Ha, think of that! It provides comfort to people, a facade, but it belies what is underneath, in both of us, does it not?” 

“Please just answer the question in hand.” 

“Would you prefer I didn’t breathe? Like this?” 

It was ghastly to Agatha, the way he instantly became still, a dead, pale thing; the creature which lurked in every superstitious nightmare. 

“Oh, no, Count, that is … entirely grim! I would rather not be reminded I am performing the role of a necromancer here.” 

“A necromancer! How wounding! Yes, I ate one of those once. I think he was quite shocked about it, expected me to be grateful or something. He interrupted my nap.” 

Dracula rolled onto his back again, hands behind his head, legs crossed casually at the ankle. He stared up at the ceiling for some time.

“Now, it is my turn to ask you a question, Agatha.” 

Agatha narrowed her eyes. 

“I saw the sun, in your mind, in that disgusting barn. And no, I don’t bother rooting around in the recesses of people’s minds usually – mostly deadly boring. But yours ... tell me what the sun feels like, Agatha?” 

Agatha supposed it was fairly normal, that someone might seek knowledge on something which could kill them. His eyes were bright, greedy. He had stopped breathing again, she noticed with a shudder. She would give him what he wanted, if only to feel like she was in the company of something even vaguely human.

“It can prickle sometimes, like something feather-light and careful, crawling slowly across the skin.” She paused, her face turned towards the lamp as she considered. “But warm, comforting. A deep glow in the bones. A reminder that one is alive in the world.” 

“Ahhhhh,” he exhaled, finally, his eyes fluttering shut. “Beautiful. Thank you." 

Agatha watched his face soften for a few moments before his eyes flew open again. 

“So, am I to be privy to the results of your little experiment, Agatha?” 

She wondered if he really was interested; he certainly gave the impression he was, head cocked, all alertness again, as a dog might listen at a door. Agatha could not help reflect that there was something almost child-like in his expression. 

“I do believe the sexual act in some way connects you back to a facet of humanity, Count. Your original humanity, that is. Although it is merely a relic, I surmise.” 

He gave a short laugh. 

“It certainly connected _you_ to your humanity, Agatha.” 

Agatha flapped her hand dismissively at him. 

“A side-effect. Interesting, that it seemed to suppress your bloodlust, even if temporarily. However, I do still intend to kill you, Count Dracula. Just as soon as I possibly can.” 

He sat up, smiling broadly. This was when he was at his happiest, it seemed. But really, it must be a poor shadow of the strategy and skill he would have used as a human; a warlord, he had called himself. Agatha wondered if he missed the cut of thrust of _real_ battle, instead of the absurd pursuals of his blood meals which presented no challenge at all, not really. Like a caged lion being thrown pieces of dull meat, already starting to rot. 

“Oh really? Even after our little _tete a_ _tete_? I’m afraid you’ll find I always win in a race to the bottom. And I do warn you, there will be blood.” 

Agatha barely had time to take her next breath before he was on her, and her fall off the precipice this time was a horror-filled plummet from a cliff-edge into a churning river of her own blood. She thrashed within it, trying not to drown. It seemed years later, she finally surfaced, confused and weak, tangled in the filthy blankets of the bunk. She groaned feebly, her eyes adjusting to light and the assembled figures crowded around her. And of course, there _he_ was, as composed and calm as ever, at the centre of the assembled motley crew who stared down at her. 

“You see, here is the foul murderess, drenched in the blood of her victims! I suggest we hang her, immediately!” 

So, the game was on. 


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Agatha finds herself in an unusual situation, but she must adapt if she is to continue her work.

“The last thing your eyes will ever see, is the contempt in mine.” 

If only that had been true. 

When Agatha reflected on those last frenetic hours aboard The Demeter, it was from a perspective which seemed beyond even a dream. She’d had to move, with lightning speed, from a weakened state into taking charge of the ragbag assortment of terrified human life which were Dracula’s leftovers and it had proven impossible to prevent them being picked off, like fish in a barrel. Though the fact she'd persuaded the demented Russian cook and sad little Piotr to literally jump ship before she blew the thing up, was a matter of pride. 

Agatha had no doubt that Dracula had enjoyed every last minute, orchestrating all of the deaths on The Demeter. Even to the extent of feigning his own and then popping back up again like a demonic jack-in-the-box. 

_Except one_ _death_. Agatha was firmly in charge of her own death. With the help of Captain Solokov, The Demeter had taken all left aboard down with it, immersed within a watery death-dream there was no waking up from. Agatha’s last bodily memory was the sight of her own pale hands, floating above her head like strange sea creatures, as she sank below the dark lens of the ocean. 

Which is why Agatha was more than a little discombobulated to blink back into consciousness like a flickering light, on a dark, windy hillside near Whitby Abbey. Stranger still, she was _not quite herself._ She knew that she had been quite completely dead and now she was … _what?_

_Those who cling hardest to reason, unravel the fastest._

Was that what Dracula had told her? It seemed quite fitting for the situation Agatha found herself in now – seemingly inhabiting, at least in part, the body of another, in a time and place as yet unidentified. Therefore, Agatha concluded very swiftly, that reason should play as small a part as possible in proceedings, at least until she was able to ascertain this wasn’t some elaborate form of purgatory. There was nothing reasonable at all about Agatha's predicament, so she let sense fly from her hand, like a ribbon taken by the wind. 

_But w_ _hos_ _e_ _hand?_

A hand which felt familiar in some vague way. A hand which held an empty blood vial with the name “Count Dracula” printed neatly on its label. Information was starting to slowly percolate through to Agatha. She felt at the edge of some great tidal wash, which pushed against the shore she stood on. 

_Zoe Van_ _Helsing_ _._ _Dr_ _Helsing_ _._ This came across suddenly and strongly, like a breaker crashing over her head. And Agatha understood at once that this was whose body she was sharing. A strong, determined mind which was fastened like a limpet onto logic, more even than her own mind had ever been. Her great great niece. 

A second wave of understanding washed over Agatha – it was Dracula's blood, threaded with the essence of her own, which had brought her back. Her work with him was not over. _He_ was not over – Agatha could feel his presence in the mind of this steel-nerved niece of hers. In fact, it was almost the only thing she could glean from her mind, at present – it was extraordinarily closed-off, vice-like, in fact. Agatha would have to content herself with being a passive passenger in this imperfect vessel, for the time being – after all, it was not as if she was not used to biding her time. 

* * *

Agatha adapted quickly to her new surroundings. Something she had in common with Dracula himself – a chameleon-like ability to merge into whatever situation he placed himself in. A few bites here, a blood _aperitif_ there, and he was fully up to date with whichever era he moved into, a relentless monster made flesh by the sacrifice of a million other people. But who was the real Count Dracula, shrouded in borrowed lives? Agatha’s curiosity still burned. 

The Jonathan Harker Foundation was one huge laboratory – beyond anything in Agatha’s most fevered imaginings. A cornucopia of machines which all worked to observe, to record, to translate information into data in the most efficient way possible. People buzzed about the place, as well-oiled automatons might glide on tracks, performing endless convoluted tasks. Yet there was a barely suppressed air of excitement amongst the sterile industry, the name of the Count on everyone’s lips. 

_All for Dracula_ , mused Agatha. _Wouldn’t he just love that?_

Agatha was staring at Zoe in the mirror of the minimalist lavatory where she was slowly washing her hands. Their physical similarity was striking, though perhaps something even more cynical, more tired, dwelled in Zoe’s eyes. There was still absolutely no indication that Zoe was in any way aware of Agatha and so Agatha was able to study the determined woman as she listened to her thoughts. Zoe was mulling over how to obtain more blood from Dracula, without him finding out what had happened to the last sample. She had drunk his blood in order to gain knowledge, but she did not want him to know this. _Ah, another sensible Van H_ _elsing_. It was indeed never wise to allow Dracula access to any information which may give him additional power. 

Zoe dried her hands and straightened out the tight muscles in her back with a sigh, her mind already travelling along the dim tunnels which lined the guts of The Jonathan Harker Foundation; drifting down to where the glass cage squatted, a shining diamond in a grimy mine. 

It was then that Agatha knew she was going to see Count Dracula once more. 

On the journey down to Dracula’s prison, Agatha noted the mixture of emotions which coursed through Zoe’s system – most dominant was an anticipatory excitement, verging on agitation, which Zoe worked hard to tamp down. Agatha realised it was sometimes going to be hard to extricate her own reactions from those of Zoe’s. 

The Count’s enclosure had a touch of the theatrical about it. Within it, lit up as though on a stage, Dracula was an elegant figure, sitting at a bare table, long legs crossed and head, hair as dark as ever, bowed over the tabletop. His fingers moved restlessly over the screen of a small contraption – _ah, an_ _IPad_ _!_ Agatha swiftly extracted the name of the appliance from Zoe. He was dressed in modern clothes, a fine dark suit, crisp shirt – the chameleon once more had adapted. Agatha drank him in, still handsome and composed, and so very familiar; it had not seemed so very long ago she had been in his company, even if she now knew it had really been 123 years. 

“You know, I am rather glad you provided that toilet after all, Zoe,” said Dracula, without looking up. “The last lot of blood you gave me went straight down it after the first sip. You really need to vet these donors a bit more closely. Whatever makes you think I would want to drink the blood of someone called Geoff who works in finance, but has _always_ had a burning desire to become a vampire. Bo-oring!” 

_Don’t let him catch you on the back foot, Zoe! It is what he_ _capitalises_ _on._

But Agatha could feel Zoe’s disquiet; she had not yet hit her stride with this cunning and slippery creature. 

“We can only vet what donors willingly admit to us, Count Dracula. We are not the thought police.” 

Zoe did manage to keep her voice steady and firm, Agatha noted gratifyingly. Dracula finally turned his dark eyes towards Zoe. 

“Well that’s a shame. I have no such issues, when I’m in my – ha! - natural habitat, should we call it? It’s easy to know which of the herd are worth the effort.” 

A tiny flare of triumph bloomed in Zoe. A small, secret portal to a place which she kept well-hidden, and where Agatha glimpsed not just pride, but pain too. 

“You didn’t seem to be able to apply that to me, though, did you?” 

Dracula slapped the cover over the screen of the IPad and stood up abruptly. He moved closer to the edge of his cage, cupping his hands to peer through the thick glass at her. 

“Mm, your dirty little secret, Zoe. Yes. It does rather give you an edge, admittedly.” 

Agatha understood now, in the wary gaze of Dracula, and in that brief flash of her mind, what Zoe’s edge was – she was _dying._ A disease was infiltrating her system and would overwhelm it eventually. Agatha saw, in Zoe’s mind, Dracula on his knees, gagging and choking up her blood, writhing in agony. It had almost finished him. 

“Doesn't it just,” Zoe stated coolly, before calling over her shoulder at the two burly gun-toting men, who stood guard: “You can leave, he won’t touch me.” 

_Ah, she has natural command._ _And not a shred of self-pity for herself. What Dracula would give to siphon that off for himself._

Dracula watched with interest as the men departed, no hesitancy in their compliance with Zoe’s orders. 

“So obedient!” he laughed, pacing along the glass wall Zoe stood before. “But why, Zoe? What do you not want them to see?” 

“I need to collect another blood sample from you, Count.” 

He stopped pacing, frowning at Zoe. 

“Another one? The first wasn’t enough?” 

Agatha felt Zoe riffle through possibilities. 

“It was … misplaced.” 

“Misplaced!?” he barked. “You expect me to believe that you _l_ _ost_ my blood?” 

“Not me personally. A lab assistant.” 

Agatha was interested at how smoothly Zoe told the lie and the fact that there was barely any difference in the intention between her saying it and _a_ _lmost_ believing it herself. 

“What a shower of amateurs you have employed! Ah, poor, dying Zoe, surrounded by hired guns and assistants with slippery fingers. What if they sold it off to the highest bidder?” 

But Zoe was already moving towards the set of small metal drawers at the edge of the room and extracting a fresh glass vial from one of them. 

“There is no question of that happening, I give you my word.” 

“Do you now?” He said thoughtfully, standing back from the door which Zoe was unlocking. Zoe’s heart rate quickened as she stepped into Dracula’s vicinity. Agatha saw the Count's nostrils flare as Zoe moved closer to him. She was keeping her eyes flat and disinterested, and held the vial out at arm’s length. _Good girl!_

“If you please.” 

“You know, you _could_ make this more fun,” grumbled Dracula, removing his jacket and rolling up his sleeve. “Agatha would have spiced it up a bit.” He smiled slowly at Zoe. 

“Agatha?” 

“Someone else who wanted to quantify me, though her experiments were somewhat more … rudimentary.” 

Agatha’s temper blazed but before she was able to formulate a coherent thought, she was aware of Zoe hissing: “perhaps if she had access to the contraptions here, she would have had more success!” 

Dracula’s eyebrows shot up in surprise, though he continued to calmly slit his skin and allow the thick blood to ooze into the small container. Agatha was still reeling that Zoe had spoken the words which she had dictated from the depths of her anger. 

“Perhaps…” Dracula mused, sealing the gash up perfunctorily and handing the sample to Zoe. He continued to stare assessingly at her. “Contraptions? Not a very modern scientific term?” 

“Equipment,” stammered Zoe, confused, taking a step back from him. Dracula advanced on her, his brows furrowed in puzzlement. Zoe stumbled back against the thick pane of glass behind her, and then he was in front of her, hands placed either side of her head, leaning in to peer closely into her eyes. He coasted his nose over Zoe's jaw, breathing in deeply. Agatha's panic joined Zoe's; she was beginning to feel horribly exposed. 

“I only have to scream, Count, and they will …” 

“Yes, yes, burn me to a crisp,” murmured Dracula in Zoe’s ear. “There is something…” He paused. His hand closed around Zoe's wrist and abruptly, he roughly yanked her hand down below the waistband of his trousers, where he pressed her palm hard against his crotch. 

“Zoe, you’ve been drinking my blood, haven’t you? That’s very, _very_ bad of you,” he sighed into her ear. “There's only one person who can do this to me.” He thrust his hardness against Zoe's hand then chuckled and rapped his knuckles softly on Zoe’s forehead. 

“Sister Agatha Van Helsing, I know you’re in there. Come out, come out, wherever you are.” 


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Two heads are better than one. Agatha and Zoe must find a way of working together. Dracula could not be more delighted.

It was safe to say that if Agatha had possessed skin, she would have jumped entirely out of it at Dracula's words. _How on earth had the infernal beast_ _found her?_

There was little time to reflect however, as hidden machinery ground into action and the centre of the glass enclosure was flooded with sharp daylight. A voice from a microphone in one corner drawled dispassionately: “Get your hands off Dr Helsing and step away, Count Dracula.” 

“Tell _her_ to get her hands off _me.”_

Zoe whipped her hand away from the Count's crotch where it had been resting contemplatively as both Agatha and Zoe puzzled over their own dilemmas. Dracula’s fingers were no longer manacling her wrists. 

“Don’t worry, Agatha,” he whispered soothingly. “I’m sure you’ll get other opportunities.” Dracula raised his hands as though a gun was trained on him, and stepped smoothly sideways, making sure he was within the protection of the shadows lining the edge of the cage. 

Zoe’s confusion was paralysing her and Agatha could feel the engine of her brain struggle with the load. 

“For God’s sake, you don’t mean Agatha _Van_ _Helsing_?” 

Agatha waited as Zoe’s mind groped its way back to when Dracula had emerged from the North Sea with his usual aplomb; he had only been momentarily thrown by the presence of helicopters, cars and guns but it seemed to be the sight of Zoe which confused him most. 

“Agatha?” he had said tentatively and Agatha found she was almost touched as she relived the scene through Zoe’s memory. _Almost._

But Zoe was having different emotions; mainly irritation at his insistence on bringing Agatha’s name into the situation. If Agatha had more time, she might have been affronted at Zoe’s attempt to push her out of her mind; _I am NOT Agatha Van_ _Helsing_. Not even a scrap of gratitude for her genetic endowment. 

However, she recognised this was not the time for petty annoyances. _Yes, Zoe!_ Agatha urged. _Make the connection!_ _It is all in the blood._ Agatha had the bizarre sensation of what she imagined a genie might feel before being released from its bottle. 

Meanwhile, Dracula was stretching extravagantly, running his hands through his sleek hair as Zoe stepped into the bright shaft of light. He cocked his head and smiled at her. 

“Who else would I mean? Your dear Auntie Agatha. You have her blood in your veins as well as mine. What a delicious combination!” He aimed a chef's kiss in her direction. “Don’t tell me you can’t feel her in there, she's not usually so shy. ARE YOU AGATHA?” He gave another delighted chuckle. “Oh this is _perfect._ ” 

“Dr Helsing, get out of the enclosure,” came the disembodied voice again, more insistently. 

“You’d better run along, Dr Helsing. You have a family reunion awaiting you.” He waved her off as she backed out of the cage, locking it with shaking hands. When Zoe glanced back, he was already scrolling through the IPad again, the picture of aristocratic composure. 

* * *

“What were you playing at?” Kate Bloxham asked once they were ensconced Zoe’s office with the door closed. Agatha was pleased at its cell-like appearance, no adornments, just a desk, chair, computer, and a basic, low bed in the corner. It was a place of study and endeavour, like her own workshop had been back in the convent. However, Agatha was also anxious that the terrier-like woman called Bloxham should leave, the sooner the better. There was work to be done. 

“Look, I know it’s tempting to push it with Dracula. I mean...” she held up her bandaged hand. 

“Well, yes, quite,” muttered Zoe. Agatha had a flash of a subaqueous Count gnawing on the thumb of the brisk woman sitting next to Zoe, clouds of blood blooming like red algae in the water where he was suspended. 

“Who needs opposable thumbs anyway?” Bloxham gave a bleak smile. “But we need to be careful. The foundation’s funders …" 

Zoe slammed a hand on her desk. 

“The funders!” she spat. “I’ve spent years building this place up. It’s about _my_ research too, which doesn’t necessarily follow _everything_ in their bloody manifesto!” 

“That’s mutinous talk, Zoe.” Kate Bloxham sighed, but there was no heat in her voice. “They’re nervous enough as it is. What was he on about? Agatha Van Helsing? Your great Aunt?” 

“Great, great Aunt. No, I don’t know what he was on about. Maybe there’s some kind of brain or memory malfunction going on. I just needed another sample.” 

“You sent the guards away!” 

“It was fine.” 

_Ah_ , thought Agatha, _my secretive niece, they don’t know about your illness!_

“Only because I happened to check the surveillance feed and see what was going on!” 

“Kate, consider my wrists slapped. Would you mind leaving me to it for now? I need to make some notes.” 

Zoe made a show of opening drawers in her desk, flicking on her laptop, her back to Bloxham. It seemed to do the trick and, heaving another sigh, she left. 

“You should go home tonight, Zoe, instead of sleeping in this cell,” Kate said over her shoulder as she closed the door behind her. 

Agatha sprung into action. 

_Now, we need to think Zoe_ _!_ _You saw that reaction from the Count.This brings another element to him, don’t you think?_

But the portcullis was resolutely down in Zoe’s brain, and there was nothing but a blank wall. As Zoe moved around her office, shuffling papers and slotting a pod into the strange machine which seemed to produce coffee, Agatha realised she was faced with scaling the huge, immoveable mountain of her niece’s denial. 

_This is a strange situation, I give you that. But Dracula is right, I AM here with you. And we are stronger together!_

Nothing. There was absolutely nothing – no reaction, not even a flicker. 

And so Agatha found she had established one of the main differences between them – though Zoe did indeed possess the Van Helsing stubborn persistence, she was certainly no team worker. Agatha had thrived in motivating her army of nuns and then later, the crew of The Demeter. There was no such impulse in Zoe; her work was solitary and she alone sought and took credit for it. Agatha felt herself beat against the limits of Zoe’s consciousness – there was an iron-clad wilfulness in her complete disregard of Agatha’s presence. Agatha would have to try another tack. 

She watched as Zoe typed out notes into her computer. 

“ _New development in the reactions of the Count today. An unforeseen sexual response with accompanying physical functioning which appeared to be that of a normal human male.”_

_WE NEED A SAMPLE, ZOE!_

_“Since standard_ _vampiric_ _reproduction’ is based on exchange of blood, the hypothesis would be that this leaves the sexual organs as secondary and therefore defunct. If not, this raises questions about the possibility of any viable semen being able to fertilise a human female egg.”_

_A SAMPLE OF HIS SEED…AH, SEMEN!_

Zoe had stopped typing, her fingers twitching slightly as they hung over the keyboard. Agatha saw the frown deepen between Zoe’s brows, reflected in the screen of the laptop. Her shoulders were hunched with tension. 

_You know I’m right. What if he could create offspring? What else might he inflict on the world? Dear God!_

_“The only way to test this theory would appear to be to obtain a semen sample and analyse it, though this would contravene the main aims of the Foundation’s study of Count Dracula and would have to be carried out in an unofficial capacity.”_

_Yes, Zoe! All of my work was carried out in such a way. Sometimes it is the only way to push science forward! We will collect it tonight. Turn off those cameras and send the guards away again._

Zoe shook her head, a sudden jumble of virtually unintelligible thoughts leaking from the place she kept so hidden from Agatha. Almost as swiftly, her brain snapped shut again and she continued briskly typing. 

_“Though this plan presupposes Count Dracula’s willingness to cooperate and supply the sample.”_

_Ha! You know he will give it! He will take utmost pleasure in it!_

Zoe slammed the laptop closed. 

“All _right,_ ” she hissed. “Tonight!” 

* * *

It was after midnight when Zoe finally disabled the cameras which tracked Count Dracula’s every move – though he had been virtually immobile since she had left him, only his hands in motion as he slid his fingers over the screen of the IPad. Zoe pulled on her white coat, before making her way down again to Dracula’s cell. There was no-one else in the building, apart from the guards, dismissed as soon as she entered the area where the wedge-shaped container holding the Count resided. Zoe had not attempted any more direct communication with Agatha but the validity of the reasoning for obtaining the sample had solidified in her mind, regardless. 

“Ooh look at you, Zoe. All done up in your lab coat. So commanding.” 

Dracula stood near the front of his cell, hands clasped behind his back. The planes and angles of his face were lit up under the artificial light which illuminated his living space. He waved his hand up at the beams which were directed onto him. 

“Can’t you do something about this, it’s not the most flattering or soothing light.” 

“It's not designed to highlight your best side, Count.” 

“All my sides are best, don’t you agree?” He presented first one side, then the other, of his handsome profile. “It’s merely irritating to be under a spotlight the entire time.” 

“I'd have thought that it was right up your street.” 

“Enough about me. Tell me, how did the reunion go? Did you and Agatha get cosy, compare notes?” 

_Huh_ , thought Agatha. _Enough about me_ _,_ _but let’s talk about me. Utterly typical!_

“Don’t be absurd Count Dracula. Much as you might like to imagine my long dead ancestor is somehow residing in my body, I can assure you that it is just me, myself and I in here.” 

He moved closer to the glass and leaned in conspiratorially. 

“Agatha,” he whispered. “Are you... losing your touch?” 

Agatha felt Zoe's temper flare. 

“Your obsession with her makes me question your sanity, Count.” 

“Obsession? Aren’t we all mad in here? No, no. I think in the modern parlance, Agatha and I would be described as ‘frenemies’. It was such fun. You should take a leaf from her ecclesiastical book, Zoe. Loosen up a little.” 

Zoe opened one of the steel cabinets nearby and extracted a glass beaker as Dracula craned his neck in interest. 

“Oh, what's this? Not _another_ sample? You’ll bleed me dry, ladies. Especially as I wasn’t fed today. I’m _starving_ _,_ ” he growled. 

“Consider that punishment for your earlier infraction.” 

Dracula squinted at the beaker. 

“You don’t expect me to fill that, do you?” 

Zoe took a deep breath. She clearly found Dracula's constant attempts to provoke as irritating as Agatha did. The request was going to be hard to make. 

“Not with blood, Count. We ... _I_ want a semen sample.” 

Dracula clapped his hands together in glee. 

“Oh ho ho! Agatha, you _are_ an influence, after all. I under-estimated your reach! Well done, you _hound!_ ” He settled himself in the chair and stretched his legs out nonchalantly on the table top. “But, why would I do that?” 

“Because if you don’t …" Zoe’s fist was clenched in the pocket of her lab coat, the other curled so tightly around the glass container, Agatha feared it would shatter. 

“No, you won’t. Because it’s dark now and no-one else is here. You can’t threaten me with daylight and you can’t come back when there IS daylight, and the place is full of other people, because this is not quite _official,_ is it Zoe? So, I ask you again – why would I do it?” 

_Let me, Zoe. Just let me._ Agatha was poised like a runner in starting blocks before a sprint. 

Then, she was speaking, and it was Agatha’s own voice, unmistakeably her own voice, ringing out in the cavernous room: “Because you are as curious as we are, Count Dracula, are you not? Your monstrous ego demands to be fed. You said yourself, it had not happened before? And you are a seeker of novel experiences, if nothing else – how it must alleviate the boredom of being alive all these centuries!” 

Dracula’s face softened with pleasure. “Ahhh, there you are, Agatha.” He closed his eyes, his nostrils flaring delicately. “You have joined the party at last. Come on, then. Bring it here.” He held up a beckoning forefinger as Agatha unlocked the door and stepped into the enclosure. His acquiescence was immodestly swift, his hunger for the unique in experiences was almost as strong as his bloodlust. 

“Can’t we use a different, uh, vessel?” he smiled innocently at her, though his gaze was entirely lewd. 

“No!” 

“You are so clinical!” he huffed. “But really, I do think that turns me on even more.” 

As Agatha thumped the beaker down on the table in front of Dracula, she could feel Zoe, truculently fighting her way to the surface. 

“All you have to do is wank into the bottle, and stop being a wind-up merchant for two seconds!” she spat. 

“Zoe, you are such a mood-killer,” Dracula grimaced. “Can’t you go and count test-tubes or something” 

“It would be better not to bite the hand which feeds you, Count,” said Agatha, and gave a little snort of laughter. “That is particularly fitting here, isn’t it?” 

“But can I lick the hand which feeds me, Agatha?” He caught her hand and pulled it up to his mouth, his tongue tracing the soft flesh of her wrist. “Oh, just there, below the surface. I feel it.” He sucked gently on her pulse-point. “It really adds such a frisson. The forbidden fruit.” 

“No, Count Dracula!” The hand was snatched back. “Zoe does not give permission for that.” 

“Zoe is a spoilsport. Oh, very well, let’s just get on with it. Now, naked or not?” 

“There is no need for you to take your clothes off, Count Dracula, as much as you enjoy any excuse to do it.” 

“I meant you, silly.” He held his hands up at Agatha’s furious face. “Alright, alright. But I need a starter. Let me just …" 

He leaned in a took a deep breath of her, nosing his way under the starched collar of the lab coat. “It’s so strange, that you smell different, when it’s you, Agatha. A whiff of sacramental bread with just a soupcon of dusty old bibles. No really, it’s like ambrosia, positively indecent _,_ ” he murmured against her neck. 

“And you smell like death, Count. Now, I can feel you are suitably prepared, will you just... _ah_!” 

She gasped as he caught the tendon of her neck in his teeth and pinched it gently, once, releasing it just as quickly. 

“Wouldn’t you like me to just push you back onto the table here? It would be so easy, Agatha. I can almost feel those legs fastened around my waist. I would go so deep.” His voice was as heavy and intoxicating, as narcotic as his bite, and Agatha had to tussle with its hypnotic effects in just the same way. 

“Just take your … your … and put the … _seed_ in there.” Agatha pointed at the container, sitting on the no-mans-land of the table. 

“My what? My cock? Take my cock out? I think that’s what Zoe might call it.” 

“There is no need to draw this out!” 

“But it’s _fun_ , and I’m a hedonist, after all. I think you could be too.” He paused. “My _what,_ by the way? Seed? I don’t think it’s been called that since the early 1400’s, Agatha. You quaint little thing.” 

Nonetheless, Agatha was aware that Dracula had unzipped his trousers and taken himself in hand. 

“I can still remember what you felt like,” he said, his hand moving slowly, at first. “Such unexplored depths. Like slipping into a warm, deep, secret pool.” His other hand stroked her neck, fingers resting where the pulse throbbed. “So fast, Agatha. Can you feel it?” He took her hand and pressed her fingers to the blood beating through the artery there. “Is it good to feel that life-force again? Even if it is only borrowed.” His eyes were lustrous and greedy, desperate, even and the heavy silver ring he wore pressed cold against her neck. 

“You are very adept at multi-tasking, Count,” marvelled Agatha, as his other hand continued to move firmly, quickening now. But although she held his intent gaze defiantly, in truth Agatha was experiencing an almost overwhelming rush of arousal, with the added and disconcerting knowledge that it was not just her _own_ arousal which she could feel. 

_I’m sorry, Zoe,_ _but_ _this is an unfortunate side-effect._

“Let’s just call it muscle memory,” Dracula panted. “Now give me that glass, you minx.” 

* * *

“Well the spermatozoa are quite dead,” said Zoe, looking up from the microscope, and pressing her knuckles into her fatigued eyes. “And no, not _un_ dead, just standard dead. God, can you imagine – vampiric spunk.” She shook her head. “Jesus, who am I talking to?!” 

_I’m here,_ _Zoe_ _. It is a relief his semen is_ _without bite, indeed!_

Agatha had been quiet since they had retreated from the Count and sequestered into Zoe’s office to study the sample. She felt Zoe’s battle with herself over the events which had just taken place. 

_There is no shame_ _in your bodily reaction to the Count. He is a master of appealing to human senses after all._ _It is his modus_ _operandi_ _and what has made him such a successful predator._

“You know, sometimes I wonder if this - all this - is just my cancer? Has it finally metastasised into my brain and this is just some kind of weird auditory hallucination?” 

_That is a valid and_ _sensible theory,_ _Zoe,_ _but no. I assure you this is entirely real._

“It's all too ridiculous.” 

_But we must run with it, Zoe. There is a reason for this happening._

Despite Zoe’s words of doubt, Agatha could sense her turmoil retreat a little, a reluctant acceptance trying to settle awkwardly into its place. 

But the moment of calm was short-lived as Kate Bloxham burst into Zoe’s office like a tornado. 

“Oh fuck, Zoe. It’s Dracula. He got himself a fucking _lawyer._ Some sycophant from a firm that’s worked for him since last bloody century. He _knows_ what Dracula is, he fucking _knows_ but we still have to release him. Right now. Legally, he has us over a barrel.” 

Zoe glanced at the clock on her wall. 6am and still dark outside. Of course. She stood from her desk and began to follow Kate who was cantering down the corridor to the entrance foyer of The Jonathan Harker Foundation. 

Dracula was straightening the cuffs of his shirt and pulling on his suit jacket. He smiled widely as Zoe arrived. 

“Zoe, I have to say, it’s been an absolute pleasure. Really it has. You've looked after me so well. But I fear I've outgrown Whitby. I suspect it’s one of those places where everyone is related to everyone else, much like Transylvania, and as you know, I abhor a limited menu. I did ask my lawyer to hold off a few days, as we were enjoying one another's company so much, but the time is nigh.” 

He held out his hand and Zoe, glaring at him, took it. She would not give him the satisfaction of being able to detail the extent of how he had played with her, with _them._

“Goodbye then,” she said briskly. 

“You’re quite right, there's no time for protracted goodbyes, Mr Renfield is waiting for me in his car. A life of diversity and exotic flavour awaits me.” He ran his thumb over her palm as he shook her hand. 

“Please do look me up sometime.” 

“Oh, I will, believe me,” Zoe said through gritted teeth as she watched the darkness envelop Count Dracula. 


	6. Chapter 6

The week immediately following Count Dracula’s departure from The Jonathan Harker Foundation seemed to set in action a series of events which led to Agatha learning a new phrase from Zoe’s interesting vocabulary: ‘Up shit creek without a paddle’. Though Agatha had to admit, it was an entirely suitable description for the current predicament. Which was: jobless. Zoe had been fired.

The phone conversation with the mysterious and nameless CEO of the Foundation, had been swift; the axe fell decisively and Zoe was not in the least surprised that they were willing to sweep away 20 years of her work. In their eyes, she had lost Dracula, and there was no coming back from that. There would be no leaving party, no golden handshake - she was ousted with all the dignity of an old piece of furniture thrown onto a bonfire. But Agatha also sensed a resignation about it – it seemed Zoe had accepted some unusual working conditions in order to obtain the funding she needed, though Agatha could not quite glean the details from that murky area in Zoe’s mind. There was a moral ambiguity there which Count Dracula himself would have been proud of.

 _Ruthless!_ Agatha concluded. _Now, what is our next move?_

But Zoe was back to ignoring Agatha, with the occasional glimpse into a place which was scorched with resentment. Agatha had to tag along like an unwelcome and unacknowledged guest as Zoe made preparations to leave Whitby. The train journey to London was particularly painful as Agatha was privy to a litany of indignant reflections on Zoe’s treatment by the Foundation. Agatha reached her limit somewhere just outside of Peterborough.

 _Zoe Van Helsing! This bitterness is not becoming to a member of the Van Helsing family! So Count Dracula was your life’s work? Mine too! And my death’s work as it turns out. We cannot let this setback drive us towards inaction and stagnancy. The Count will never stop, so neither should we. The Jonathan Harker Foundation only provided the framework for your work, not the reason for it_!

“If it hadn’t been for your suggestion, I would still be there! In the best position to find him again,” Zoe muttered sullenly, earning a strange look from the man in the seat next to hers. “You heard what they said; the boundaries of orthodoxy had been pushed too far. They don’t trust me anymore.”

_That’s something coming from them, isn’t it, Zoe? Is that the real reason, do you think?_

“It’s the only one which matters at the moment. Anyway, it’s all gone now. He’s gone. How in the hell will we ever find him again?”

Agatha’s delight at Zoe’s use of “we” was unabashed, even as the alarmed man beside Zoe finally sidled out of his seat. Zoe had turned her gaze outward, and didn’t notice him go; she was watching the landscape which hurtled past the window change – fields slowly giving way to a landscape of bricks, glass and concrete.

_Ah Zoe, we won’t have to find him. You’ll see._

Zoe had taken herself back to the flat she owned in Camden, bought in the era before gentrification had taken over such areas of London. Located above a Chinese restaurant, it was permeated with cooking smells 24 hours a day which had plagued Zoe throughout the years she'd lived there. Though genteel coffee bars and shops selling a plethora of macrame plant holders and hand-woven cushions had popped up in the intervening years, the restaurant had hung on grimly, like an umami-scented cloud over the hipster rainbow. For that alone, Zoe respected it, and Agatha could feel the muted pleasure in the familiarity of her home-coming.

For the first few days, Zoe slept. Only getting up to use the bathroom and eat cereal several times a day in lieu of meals. Exhaustion suffused every fibre of her being, and the soporific effect also extended to Agatha; they just existed side-by-side, with no real thoughts of past, present or future. Though Agatha wondered vaguely if this semi-amniotic state was what Dracula had experienced in his years under the restless sea at Whitby. Zoe too spent her time immersed in hazy dreams about the Count, the weight of his silver ring suffocatingly heavy upon her collarbone. Agatha was aware of the disease in Zoe, its hand equally as heavy.

It was around a week after Zoe arrived back in the flat that the text messages started, her phone pinging as she watched television in a post-cereal stupor.

  
NUMBER WITHHELD: Welcome to London, Zoe. I hoped you would make your way back here.  
ZOE: Who is this?  
NUMBER WITHHELD: An old AND new friend, you could say.   
ZOE: I don’t do riddles but if I did that one would be ridiculously easy, Count Dracula. How did you get my number?  
NUMBER WITHHELD: Am I speaking to Zoe? The lack of a sense of humour is a bit of a giveaway.  
ZOE: I expect that shady lawyer of yours had something to do with it.  
NUMBER WITHHELD: lol

Zoe gave an exasperated huff and threw her phone down onto the sofa, but Agatha was more than aware of the hot bloom of triumph they shared. The phone continued to buzz persistently as more messages came through.

“LOL?!” Zoe exclaimed. “Bloody LOL?!”

 _You see? I told you we would not have to find him. He is as predictable as night following day_.

“That’s fine but if all he’s going to do is send nuisance texts, like a bored teenager, it’s hardly helpful.”

 _Don’t you see? He can’t keep away. We are tied to him – and he seeks something from us_.

“As romantic as that sounds, I think the reality is more that he likes to play with people, like a particularly smug cat with a half-dead mouse.”

_Ah! You are not dead yet, though, little mouse! And we have the advantage in that we are not ruled by emotion. He is VERY emotional for one so very dead, don’t you think? He is ruled by whim. Not an ounce of logic._

“He seems to get by,” murmured Zoe, picking her phone back up to resume reading the messages which had piled up in her inbox.

NUMBER WITHHELD: Shady lawyers have their uses, the same as shady scientists and shady nuns.  
NUMBER WITHHELD: I have found London to be most distracting, so much to do, and happily, so much time to do it.  
NUMBER WITHHELD: But I find I would like some company. That I can’t eat.  
NUMBER WITHHELD: HELLO!?  
ZOE: Are you asking me on a date, Count Dracula?  
NUMBER WITHHELD: Call it what you want, ladies. I am quite a catch on the dating scene it seems.  
ZOE: I doubt that very much, there is usually a requirement for both parties to be alive on a date.  
NUMBER WITHHELD: I generally even that up pretty quickly, don’t worry.  
ZOE: Where?  
NUMBER WITHHELD: That’s more like it. Meet me at Thirst, in Soho. 10pm. I’ll be the one in the sharp suit and sharper teeth.  
ZOE: Vampire humour is dire, Count Dracula. I’ll be there.

* * *

Zoe insisted on being 45 minutes late, something which Agatha found perplexing, but Zoe assured her was normal, expected even. It had been quite some time since Zoe had frequented a nightclub, and it was clearly not a natural habitat for her. Agatha, however, suspected if such a thing had existed in mid-19th century rural Holland, life may have turned out very differently, and a convent would have been the last destination on her mind. The pulsing lights and deep thrum of the music was intoxicating, like the manifestation of adrenaline coursing through the bloodstream. 

Agatha found she was fascinated by the crowds who jostled against one another, as bright and noisy as exotic birds; though she concluded their mating rituals were considerably less sophisticated. Dracula must be like a pig in clover, reflected Agatha, there would be no challenge to reeling in these restless, thrill-seeking children.

True to his word, Dracula was indeed dressed in a sharp suit, ensconced on a velvet chaise longue in the VIP area. His dark head was bent towards the shoulder of a young woman who was pressed against him, whispering into her ear. The pale column of her throat was exposed like the stem of a new plant as her head fell back in laughter.

_Ugh, he is such … such a popinjay!_

“Popinjay!” laughed Zoe as Dracula beckoned her into the cordoned off kingdom he inhabited, a grin lighting up his face as soon as he’d spotted Zoe. The girl's eyes passed insolently over Zoe’s form as she stepped towards where they sat.

“Who’s this, Drac?” she drawled, sliding a hand under his open collar.

Zoe’s eyebrows shot up. _Drac!_ scoffed Agatha.

“Zoe! You are here at last. Fashionably late, though unfortunately I can’t say the same about your attire.”

Zoe glanced down at her plain clothes and shrugged.  
“We can’t all be - what was it you called him, Agatha? A popinjay?”

“Ah yes, Agatha does like to try and cut me down to size. Her insults are so droll. Lucy, this is an old friend of mine. Please run along while we chat.”

“Whatever, babe. You know where to find me.” Her silver dress shifted sinuously like fish scales as she drifted off into the crowd. Dracula watched her go, his face alight with pleasure.

“Such a special flavour,” he murmured, running his tongue across his lower lip.

“You’re enjoying London then, Count,” said Zoe, accepting the glass of champagne Dracula held out to her. “You know, we’re quite embarrassingly the oldest people in here by far, you a tad more than me.”

Dracula chuckled.

“Oh, they don’t mind that with me.” He paused as Zoe made herself comfortable on the seat next to him. “A lot of them like to call me _Daddy_. I’m not sure I’m really any kind of parental figure though, are you?” He gazed innocently at her. “But they’re certainly screaming for their parents, their God, and everyone else in between, once they realise what I am.”

_He thinks he’s shocking you, Zoe. He thrives on it._

“But anyway” Dracula continued expansively, “Thank you for coming out to join me this evening.”

“Beats watching Love Island and eating Crunchy Nut Cornflakes,” Zoe shrugged. She kept her face blank, and took a sip of the champagne, aware of Dracula’s eyes moving over her throat as she swallowed. His attention, when fully focused, was disquieting in its intensity. Zoe had certainly not forgotten her own reaction to the Count during their last encounter.

“Champagne, though?” she said. “A bit cliched, surely? Still, you don’t exactly need to try hard around here, do you? I bet you only chose this place because it’s called Thirst.”

“Where’s Agatha?” Dracula said abruptly. “I think she would appreciate champagne after all that devout abstinence she went in for. I _know_ she has appetites she keeps suppressed."

 _Tiresome creature! Let me talk to him, Zoe_. Agatha clamoured at the veneer between them as Zoe began to flounder under his gaze.

“Zoe is right, Count. You are all about show without effort, aren’t you?” said Agatha, picking up the champagne bottle and pouring more into the delicate crystal glass. “Tell me, when will you get bored, passing relentlessly through the centuries, watching humans get more and more stupid? The vintage surely degenerates with each passing era.”

Dracula sat up, his ears all but pricking up at the sound of Agatha's voice.

“Never, Agatha. Humans are not stupid. Ridiculous, yes. They will never not entertain me, even as they sustain me. I’m in love with their endless capability to delude themselves. The vintage gets ever more complex though the supply will dwindle eventually.”

Agatha threw back the rest of the glass of champagne. “Not too soon hopefully, eh? Who was it that said the life of man was solitary, poor, nasty, brutish and short? Hobbes, I think?”

Dracula waved his hand dismissively. 

“Oh I don’t know, some fusty old philosopher. Don’t be so boring. Look at them!” He indicated the restless crowd, intent on their own pleasure. “They’re in love with life, death is as far from their minds as possible.” He leaned in and ran his thumb along Agatha’s collarbone, before resting it against the pulse in her neck.

“What it is about you that excites me so much, Sister Agatha? Because you do excite me.”

“It is nothing more nor less than wanting something you cannot have, Count. Any child told to keep their fingers out of the sweetie jar has the same struggle."

Agatha realised the mistake in her simile too late and the Count pounced on it jubilantly.

“My fingers itch to plunder your… er, sweetie jar, Agatha. You are a confection I would roll over my tongue till you dissolved.” He laughed at Agatha’s aghast expression. “What?! You do set yourself up for this, dear one.”

Agatha chose to ignore Dracula’s innuendo even as his thumb had slid down to skim the underside of her breast, the merest ghost of a touch. She swallowed thickly as her back arched involuntarily and Dracula hummed a speculative “Mmm,” into her ear at the reaction.

“There must be no challenge amongst these pups, Count. Perhaps not quite as easily pleased as a duchess by a pineapple and a dance with a fop but not far off it.”

“It’s true, I can have my pick. Maybe you can help me choose tonight? Or I might just use my usual method.” He leaned back in the chair and narrowed his eyes as he surveyed the mass of life before him. “Eenie, meenie, minie, mo …”

“You make a mockery of life!” hissed Agatha.

“No Agatha, I treat death very seriously. I only have to jerk the handle and they’ll die in their dreams.”

“What became of that warrior you claim to be, Count Dracula? When did you become this thing haunting the edge of life?”

Dracula paused in his ministrations of the curve of her breast and prodded her ribs cautiously.

“Agatha, Zoe really is all skin and bone. We need to fatten her up. Come, let’s find a restaurant for a late supper. Maybe I will tell you all about my misspent youth over a steak tartare.”

So Agatha found herself beating a path through the dense crowds behind the figure of Dracula as he strode to the exit. Zoe’s misgivings were substantial, but her curiosity at the prospect of gaining insight into the origins of Dracula was as strong as Agatha’s. The internal voice which whispered to them both was as persuasive as it was coldly factual: _he can’t kill us because he doesn’t want to just as much as he is physically unable. We hold the power._

The street outside seemed oddly hushed for a few moments as Agatha’s hearing adjusted. Dracula was still a few steps ahead, leading them through a quiet shortcut and chuntering about a French restaurant he knew “unfortunately doused in garlic, but as you know, Agatha, that’s just a superstition. Pity no-one told the waiter I encountered."

“Stop!” said Zoe. “Something is not right!”

There was no time to expand as a sleek black van drew up swiftly and silently alongside them. The men who emerged from the vehicle were unmistakably the same mercenaries employed by the Jonathan Harker Foundation, and who, instead of wielding guns, held crucifixes. Zoe’s suspicions were confirmed by the brief glimpse she caught of Kate Bloxham, head averted, in the passenger seat. 

“Oh for God’s sake, _no!_ ” cried Zoe, as Count Dracula instantly became a snarling, cringing mess at the sight of the cross. It was only too easy to take advantage of him being so unexpectedly thrown off kilter and bundle him into the van where no doubt there were stronger restraints waiting. Zoe could only watch in horror as the van accelerated off into the night.

“He’s mine!” she screamed after it, its tail-lights already fading. “MINE!”

“Oh … _fuck_ ,” exclaimed Agatha softly. "I suspect we are up the shitty creek again, Zoe."


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Zoe surprises herself in more ways than one.

Frank Renfield was a prime example of the unfortunate combination of mild inbreeding and inherited corporate power, in Zoe’s opinion. She had encountered his type often in life. Throughout her time in higher education there were many Renfields; braying in the corridors, clogging up the student union with an inflated sense of importance. They were destined to glide effortlessly through life, with mapped out careers nothing but an exercise in nepotism. However, Zoe was quite certain that Renfield had met his match in his current employer because Frank Renfield was quite completely addled. 

Or as Agatha put it: _He does not even have enough wit to reach half-wit status. There is a saying in Holland: al draagt een aap een gouden ring, het is en blifft een lelijk ding. A golden bit does not make the horse better!_

How much of this was just natural in Renfield and how much was due to the fact Dracula had quite clearly been feeding from him was unclear. He seemed an unlikely choice of meal; neither interesting and accomplished enough nor Dracula’s usual youthful and pretty conquest when he was feeling less fussy. Zoe was not sure if it was Agatha or Dracula’s voice which proclaimed: “He is inferior in blood terms, but a useful snack to have around when haute cuisine is thin on the ground.” It was disconcerting how Agatha’s thoughts sometimes apparently chimed with Dracula’s own. 

But Frank Renfield’s dreamy expression as he spoke of ‘his dark lord’ had both Zoe and Agatha agog. “My master told me if anything happened to him, I was to come to you, Agatha,” said the decidedly rumpled-looking man who had appeared at Zoe’s flat. It had been five days since Dracula had been taken by the Foundation. 

“I’m Zoe.” 

“Oh, but Agatha is … in there, too, isn’t she? Though, he needs you both,” said Renfield, smiling groggily and peering at her like a myopic rodent. “I don’t quite understand the mechanics of the thing myself but my dark lord assures me I don’t need to think, just act. And who am I to argue?” 

“And what does your dark lord expect us to do?” said Zoe slowly, as though speaking to a madman, which, she realised, she was. 

“Well, get him out, of course,” said Renfield incredulously, running a hand through his hair and absent-mindedly patting down its unruly strands. He eyed the cup of tea Zoe had balanced on the arm of the chair he was sitting in. “I haven’t been able to eat since he’s been gone. Or sleep. He would be very cross with me if he knew. He insists I keep myself healthy.” His face crumpled in sorrow. 

_What a poor, pathetic creature._ But Agatha’s pity did not leak through to Zoe. 

“Mr Renfield, I can’t do anything about your lovesick condition, nor your employer’s predicament. The Foundation will look after Count Dracula. Perhaps he won’t be kept in the luxury he is used to, but they only seek knowledge of him.” 

Renfield sat forward in the chair, an expression of sudden feral cunning lighting up his eyes. 

“We both know, Zoe, that the aims of the Jonathan Harker Foundation and your own were rather at odds at times? You would really give up the Count to the people who …" 

“Enough!” barked Zoe, flinching. Renfield was rattling at thedoor in Zoe’s brain that even she had thrown away the key to. That the hapless lawyer had managed to even partly infiltrate the murky intentions of the Foundation was begrudgingly impressive. 

_Amazing what love can motivate people to do_ , mused Agatha wryly. 

In truth, the last few days had consisted of one long, circular argument between Zoe and Agatha regarding what to do about Dracula’s capture. It had involved name-calling, slammed doors, far too many convoluted Dutch proverbs about not giving up in the face of adversity, and finally, the best part of two bottles of Sauvignon Blanc drank entirely too quickly for a woman with cancer and a 19th century nun. The ensuing drunken night’s sleep had been filled with dreams of Count Dracula, always flitting just out of sight, like a large, handsome, yet coquettish bat. 

Renfield’s mouth snapped shut at Zoe’s retort, and he took a sip of tea, his haunted eyes staring at her reproachfully over the rim of the cup. 

“We need to go to Whitby, to get him back,” said Renfield simply. “We can’t leave him there.” 

_He’s right_ , said Agatha. _Their intentions are not benign, are they Zoe?_

_“_ We’ve been through this! Are you forgetting what Dracula actually IS!?” 

Renfield blinked stupidly, dunking a rich-tea biscuit into his cup. 

“Oh, have we? Well, I think he’s just really marvellous; so strong, so clever. There’s the blood … thing, but - “ 

“Not you!” barked Zoe, waving her hand dismissively at him. 

“ - no-one’s perfect,” finished Renfield meekly. “But he almost is!” 

“Shut up, Mr Renfield!” Zoe began pacing the small living room of the flat. “Benign intentions or not, at least Dracula is contained.” 

_We can contain him! You know we can!_

“Is that Agatha you’re talking to?” asked Renfield, breathlessly. “The Count has told me so much about you, Agatha!” 

Renfield’s eyes were round and shining. 

“Jesus fuck! This is like a one-man fan convention for you both!” 

“I have a vehicle, Agatha,” said Renfield. “And a … a container, for the Count. To keep him safe. It’s also a rather good disguise, if I do say so myself.” 

“I’m _Zoe!_ Why can’t _you_ go and free him like you did last time? Since his incarceration is apparently not legal.” 

“Ah well, my master has not always been very discreet in his appetites since his initial release and you could say the Foundation have quite the rap sheet on him now. Not to mention some of his business dealings. Say you’ll help? Please?” 

The disheveled lawyer was almost endearing in his rumpled, grubby suit and barely contained excitement. Zoe was torn between wanting to hurl him out of her flat and being painfully curious about what he could possibly have in mind. However, Agatha was composed and thoughtful. 

_He may be a simpleton, Zoe, but at least he is an organised simpleton._

“Oh for God’s sake!” exclaimed Zoe. “Let’s see this vehicle and its ‘container’ then.” 

* * *

So this was how Zoe found herself speeding up the M1 in the passenger seat of a hearse, containing an empty yet ridiculously ostentatious coffin. 

“I’m not sure I’d describe us as inconspicuous, Mr Renfield,” said Zoe. “Where the hell did you find this coffin?” It was a huge gothic monstrosity; all black, heavy wood carved with random gargoyles, fruit, flowers and scenes of medieval torture, complete with elaborate brass handles which would have made an Undead Liberace blush. 

Renfield smiled happily. 

“Call me Frank. I commissioned it specially. I think it’s befitting of Count Dracula, don’t you?” 

“It’s certainly flashy enough but I think even Dracula might baulk at the plaque with his name on it. In the circumstances. Also, it has to be said, a coffin is the first place someone might look for a fugitive vampire.” 

“Ah … yes, good point.” His face fell and he sank into silence. 

“But, really, Frank. In for a penny, in for a pound,” said Zoe, a little unconvincingly, though he didn’t seem to notice and nodded eagerly. 

_The man is a buffoon but he is useful, Zoe._ _We must keep our eye on the prize!_ Agatha said triumphantly as Zoe wondered what had gone wrong in her life that meant she was spending the time left to her on earth embarking on a ridiculous mission, with an enfeebled lawyer, and the spirit of her dead great, great Aunt, to rescue a murderous five hundred year old vampire. 

Agatha, on the other hand, was cheerful and full of purpose, as always when a plan was afoot. It didn’t matter to her that much of it was dependent on sheer luck; she preferred action to inaction, vigour to atrophy. 

“It’s all rather exciting, isn’t it?” said Renfield brightly. “I think my life was a tad dull before I met the Count. Nothing but restrictive covenants, decennial liabilities and corporeal hereditaments.” 

_My god,_ retorted Agatha. _How does Dracula tolerate this?_

“Still,” continued Renfield. “It’s just as well he chose me to procure him an extensive portfolio of property as well as his portfolio of blood.” He guffawed. “’Blood is lives'” mimicked Renfield sonorously. “To which I said, yes, my lord and master, but _property_ is more permanent than that, and doesn’t tend to thrash about screaming when you, er… enter it.Toffee?” 

“Quite,” said Zoe, taking a sweet from the packet Renfield offered. 

“Property,” continued Renfield, “particularly the most remote and ramshackle variety, is also most useful to hole up in when you have been sprung from the clutches of a nefarious organisation by a _very_ determined nun and her clever scientist niece, who knows all the security systems and routines of said corrupt organisation like the back of her hand.” He smiled at Zoe in what he probably imagined was a winning way but it came off more as utterly deranged. Though Zoe had noted there did seem to be a remnant of sense still lurking. 

“Flattery will get you nowhere, Frank. It is pure unadulterated kismet we need.”

 _This is the only sensible thing this_ _nincompoop has said, Zoe!_

But Renfield was not listening, apparently suffused with joy at the thought of seeing Count Dracula again, he had jammed his foot on the accelerator at the first glimpse of ‘Whitby' on the road signs, and the hearse surged forward. 

“I am coming, my lord and master!” He glanced sheepishly at Zoe. “I mean, _we_ are coming.” 

“It’s a different Lord we’ll be meeting, at this rate,” muttered Zoe, clutching the car door handle. The evening sky above the moors they were driving through was heavy with rain, the bruised clouds hanging over the landscape like a dismal shroud. Zoe could not deny, there was something singing in her blood as they drew nearer: excitement, dread, a dark thrill – the potent, intoxicating mix flooding her mind. Of _course_ she had not been ready to give Count Dracula up to the Foundation. 

_I can feel it too, Zoe_ _._ Agatha’s voice was quiet but steady. _We are almost there._

* * *

Parking a hearse and coffin near enough to the Foundation to be easily accessible, yet inconspicuous, was tricky, especially as they’d had to manoeuvre the vehicle through the narrow streets of Whitby first. Fortunately, the town was quiet enough and the steep road to where the Foundation squatted near the Abbey, was totally deserted. Consisting mainly of hairpin bends which crept up the side of the rocky hill, the only good thing to be said about the incline was that it forced Renfield to decelerate his perilous driving style. The headlights swept out across the sea with every turn they took, throwing the fretful ocean's waves into deep relief. 

_What does a vampire dream of_ _I wonder_ _?_

Agatha’s question echoed where Zoe’s mind had drifted to – the dark confines of the sea where Dracula had slept and where, presumably, the earthly remains of Sister Agatha Van Helsing also slumbered in a more permanent way. Zoe briefly pondered what it would be like to hold the water-bleached skull of her aunt in her hands, to trace the empty eye sockets with her fingers. 

_How Shakespearean of you, my_ _poetic_ _niece. ‘Alas, poor Agatha, I knew her'!_

“Don’t you want to be laid to rest?” 

_Ha! Not while I still have my vital spark, Zoe!_ _I am more than a collection of bones – we all are._

“Your spark can only last as long as mine, shouldn’t we bear that in mind?” Zoe opened the door of the hearse and climbed out, but it seemed Agatha had nothing to say to that. 

It was a matter of pride to Zoe that it was upon her suggestion that the building which housed the Jonathan Harker Foundation had been configured out of the lay monk’s dormitory, which was situated a little away from the main body of the Abbey itself. She had not known how the funders of the Foundation had persuaded English Heritage to sell them the long tumble-down building, let alone how they got planning permission to drill down into the foundations of the medieval structure and create an entire underground labyrinth. Zoe knew when not to ask questions. It was very unassuming from the outside, tasteful even, with modern dark glass doors set into ancient stone, like blank eyes in a craggy face. 

Zoe’s approach to the entrance of the Foundation, with Renfield scuttling after her, was as familiar as the most well-trodden path - she must have undertaken it hundreds of times over the years, after all. They came to a halt outside the doors; the lights inside were dimmed, and there were no reception staff in sight. Zoe knew that since this was a Saturday night and already after 10pm, there would be a bare minimum of staff, most likely only guards for Dracula himself. 

“Now what?” asked Renfield, staring hopefully at Zoe. 

_I suggest we use this nitwit as a battering ram!_ Agatha’s relish for the task ahead was blatant and Zoe imagined her bouncing around on the balls of her feet like a prize-fighter before a championship bout. 

“I don’t think there’ll be any need for that,” said Zoe, as she tapped the security code into the panel to the left of the doors and they slid open smoothly. Renfield gaped as Zoe nodded. “Yeah. You would’ve expected them to learn after the palaver with the Wifi password, but the cliché about scientists not always having common sense seems to be true.” 

Their passage down to the bowels of the building was similarly unhindered, and Zoe shook her head in disbelief each time another door slid open with a muted _whoosh._ But the final barrier was a different matter. The heavy metal door which barred the way to Dracula’s cell would presumably be as easy to open, but it was what was beyond it which presented the challenge. Zoe peeked through the small window set into it, and sure enough, two armed men stood in the space between the entryway and Dracula’s cage. 

“Can you see him, is he there?!” asked Renfield eagerly. “I am here, master!” he crooned through the door. 

_Is he there, Zoe? What is he doing?_

_“_ Shut _up,_ both of you!” hissed Zoe. She peered through the window again; thankfully, the guards had their backs to the door, and Zoe knew it was also soundproofed. Oh yes, Dracula was there alright, standing with his hands pressed against the wall of his glass chamber. Zoe could see his lips moving – he was talking to the guards, and judging by the irritated twitch of their shoulders, and his impish grin, he was baiting them. Passing time in his favourite way. 

“Now what?” said Renfield inanely, again. 

“Oh, I don’t know, what do you suggest? Maybe we should breeze in there and ask them if they’d mind most awfully handing over the homicidal vampire in the shiny cage?!” 

“Well, there’s no need to be sarcastic …" said Renfield, plucking sadly at his grimy, unravelling collar. 

“Zoe!?” came a hesitant voice from behind them. Zoe turned to see Kate Bloxham, her jaw slack with shock, standing a few feet away from them. But before Zoe even had a chance to respond, Renfield was on Bloxham with preternatural speed, pinioning her arms and pushing her against the rough stone walls of the passageway. There was a gleam of metal as he held a knife at her throat; produced seemingly from thin air. 

“Renfield!” Zoe cried, then clapped her hand over her mouth as Bloxham gasped in horror. 

“Don’t you see? This is how we get him out! With her.” 

_He has a point_. Agatha’s voice was calm. _Perhaps he has something of the wise fool about him, this man of law? I find I am almost glad he is here, Zoe! Imagine that!_

“Zoe, for fuck’s sake, what are you doing!?” 

“You took Count Dracula,” said Zoe, her resolve hardening again. 

“Yes, because that’s what the Foundation is for – to study him. It was never just about you! He’s not your property!” 

Zoe’s anger flared. 

“He was _my_ project, every single of iota of information which led to us discovering him was down to me, and you know it.” 

“The Foundation …” 

“No, Kate! You _know_ what the Foundation is really about. I am not leaving him here. It’s safer for everyone.” 

Renfield shoved Bloxham roughly towards the door and barked: “Open it!” 

“You have no idea what you’re doing, do you? And what the bloody hell's wrong with _him!?_ ” said Bloxham, staring at Renfield in disgusted fascination, as he capered in front of the door like an excitable child. 

_The man_ _is an embarrassment!_ Agatha’s disapproval was tangible. 

Renfield thrust the knife at Bloxham's throat again and gave a passable snarl. Zoe sighed. 

“Just open the door, Kate, for God’s sake.” 

Their entry into the room was not quite as dignified as Zoe hoped; more an awkward tumble, with Renfield attempting to hold the knife at Bloxham’s throat and fawn over Dracula at the same time. 

“MY LORD!” 

“Put the guns down!” 

“Zoe?” said Dracula softly, his face bare with wonder. 

The armed men glanced at one another, and it seemed their hesitation spoke as much to Bloxham as it did to Zoe. 

“Do as she says for fuck’s sake!” cried Bloxham. Dracula watched with amused interest, apparently fully recovered from his initial surprise. 

“I think they’ll want an improved hourly rate before they do that, Kate.” 

Finally, the men complied, resentfully laying the guns down and kicking them towards Zoe. She hefted one up and Renfield fumbled with the other, his eyes like saucers. Being fully in the presence of his precious master had struck him dumb, and Dracula had not even glanced at him. 

“An armed scientist and lawyer!” exclaimed Dracula joyfully. “It’s like the opening line of a terrible joke. By the way, these men have crucifixes on their person.” 

Zoe held out her hand wordlessly as the wooden crosses the men had been wearing under their body armour were thrown towards her. She tucked them into her pocket and turned to Bloxham again. 

“Open the enclosure, Kate.” 

“It will be a bloodbath, Zoe. Are you mad?” She squinted at Zoe. “No, really, _are_ you mad? I’d never in a million years have thought you capable …” 

“Do you know _anything_ at all about the Van Helsings, Kate?” asked Dracula, who was now standing expectantly at the door of his cell. 

“He’s not going to bite anyone, we just want to leave.” 

_Ah_ _…_ _Zoe. Are you quite sure about that?_

But reflection on Agatha’s words was not possible in the circumstances, and might have been wise, with hindsight. As soon as the door slid open, Dracula lunged at the nearest guard, instantly tearing his throat open and bingeing noisily at the gushing wound. The man screamed but it soon became a strangled gurgle before lapsing into silence. 

“Dracula! No!” Zoe scrabbled desperately at his imperviously rigid shoulders as he hunched over the drained body, lapping up the few remaining trickles of blood. Renfield was flattened against the wall, horrified; evidently he had never witnessed his dark lord in full sanguinary flight. Dracula turned towards Zoe, eyes blood-flooded and teeth smeared in gore. 

“That,” he said calmly, “is what Brian gets for thinking he could taunt a vampire with a crucifix when he got a bit bored on the job. Plus, I was parched.” 

Zoe tried to ignore Agatha’s chuckle. 

“No more, Count! We leave! Now!” 

Dracula rose gracefully to his feet and dabbed his mouth with the handkerchief Renfield meekly held out. 

“Absolutely, Zoe. Besides, Pete here,” he indicated the second, whimpering man, “was more professional.” 

“This way, master,” simpered Renfield, bowing obsequiously as he backed out of the room. Zoe felt a surge of relief as she realised that they had done it, they had actually done it – they were going to leave the Foundation with Count Dracula. But the enraged howl which preceded Kate Bloxham launching a small metal filing cabinet towards her head was the last thing Zoe was aware of for quite some time. 

* * *

Darkness and a rumbling motion; both within a confined space, were the first things Zoe became conscious of. She dampened her dry lips with her tongue and quietly croaked: “Agatha?” There was nothing there, in the space where she usually felt Agatha, and Zoe felt a yawning chasm of fear crack open at the thought of being alone. She pushed her arms out towards the side she lay facing, and hit a surface just before full arm’s length; above her too, a similar height. The panic started to swell up from the pit of her stomach as she understood that she was in a coffin, and she kicked out, once, a primal fear corkscrewing up her spinal cord, her own terrified sob amplified in the confined space. Instantly, arms reached around her, pulling her back against a warm body and Count Dracula’s voice murmured close by: 

“Shhh, Zoe. I have you. It’s alright.” His hands ran up and down her arms, rubbing warmth back into them. "Don't be frightened."

“Oh god, I’m not in... in that coffin?” 

“Mm, yes you are, but please don’t worry, you’re still alive. Just think of this as a dress rehearsal.” 

“Where … where...?” 

“We’re just going to take a timely holiday, for a while. Till the dust settles. A little pied-à-terre of mine in Scotland, to be exact.” 

“I can’t hear Agatha anymore,” stammered Zoe. “I think she’s …" 

“I would have thought that was a bit of a relief, Zoe? It can’t be easy being subjected to her every waking thought, she is really quite exhausting, isn’t she? She’ll be back, I’m sure of it.” 

Dracula’s fingers were now circling the small bones of her wrists, pressing his thumb gently into the fleshy places between the tendons. He was so _warm._ Why was he so warm? The denseness of his body curled around hers was soothing Zoe, and she felt herself become limp and loose-limbed. The darkness too, offered solace; she was nothing but a series of nerve-endings being handled as carefully as a precious jewel. 

“That’s it,” Dracula whispered. “Relax.” His lips found the edge of her ear and he nipped along its ridge before his teeth caught at her lobe and squeezed it gently. 

“I have to say, I’ve had a few daring escapes in my time, which generally involved avoiding villagers with pitchforks, but that was quite something, Zoe. Brava!” 

“I’m not sure …" Zoe gasped, as Dracula’s hand slid slowly over her stomach, catching the point of her hipbone to pull her further back against him. “... why you’re thanking me. It was Agatha and Renfield too.” 

“It would never have happened without your say so. Renfield is an imbecile, and Agatha can only employ her powers of persuasion. Yes, those powers are strong, but I have tasted your blood, and I know you would do nothing unless you really wanted to. _You_ are the sovereign in that kingdom you both inhabit.” 

His hand had returned to her hipbone where the movement of his fingers mirrored those of his left hand, which were caressing the skin of her jaw as though her flesh was made of silk and he meant to unpick the fabric of her skin, reach in and pluck out her very essence. Zoe was suffused with warmth, heat extending from the places he touched her into her deepest parts – it was a strangely liminal space they were floating in together, and Zoe felt quite completely removed from herself. A soft moan escaped from her and Dracula turned her head to catch the end of her breath with his mouth, sucking first at her bottom lip, before running the tip of his tongue over the length of her long upper lip. 

“Did you know you are bleeding? Feel it.” He lifted her fingers to her temple and Zoe felt the warm stickiness of her own blood coat them. Dracula gave a guttural groan. “Taste it for me, Zoe.” He guided her fingers into her mouth, pressing his own lips to the very edge of where her fingers met her mouth, his tongue tracing the edge of her lips. “What does it taste like?” he moaned against her jaw. 

Zoe stretched her body out, so every part of herself was draped in Count Dracula. 

“Like rust. Like iron. Like salt,” she murmured softly. “... like life.” 

Dracula pressed himself harder against her and sighed into her ear: “Zoe, have you ever had coffin-sex ...?” 


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So. This was supposed to be the final chapter but it just turned into a short chapter of smut. Oh well! Next chapter very likely to be final one and a return to a semblance of plot. In the meantime: COFFIN SEX KLAXON!

“No, I certainly have not had “coffin sex" Count Dracula,” huffed Zoe. She squirmed against the solid mass of Dracula which was wrapped around her, fighting the urge to grind her backside against the Count's thickened groin where he pressed it up against her. There was something about the sensory deprivation of the situation which was making Zoe reckless; almost a child’s notion of _if I can’t see you_ _,_ _then you can’t see me_ _and it's not really happening_ _!_ The lack of Agatha’s presence only added to a sense of the freedom of invisibility. He couldn’t kill her, mused Zoe. She was dying after all, to seize the last embers of life, even if it meant getting burnt, could not be wrong and at this moment Zoe felt _very_ alive. 

“Mmm, oh me neither actually, but wouldn’t you like to try?” He laughed softly as his fingers continued their skilled exploration of any bare skin they could find. “You know, I’m sure Agatha would approve of such an experiment – think of it as an exercise in understanding the science of force, mass, energy and, oh...” He thrust gently against her. “...mechanics.” His nose was buried against her neck, beneath her earlobe, his breath as hot as summer wind against her throat. His tongue found the taut tendon there and he ran it along the length of the sinew. 

“I understand those principles very well already, Count,” said Zoe haltingly, as she felt her own arousal pushing against the dam in her mind. 

“Won’t you let me, Zoe,” he whispered. “What is there to stop us? Let me in.” 

“Agatha told me,” said Zoe. “That you make people dream when you bite them. Take them on a journey ...” 

“Ah, and yet I don’t have that privilege with you. Our little journey was cut short. It’s a different place we would go to, and we would be very much awake.” He was stroking her abdomen, working loose her shirt from the waistband of her trousers to lay his palm on her bare flesh. “It’s only us here, Zoe. Let me take you somewhere else.” His voice was low and so close as his fingers circled her navel slowly, sparking Zoe’s desire like flint against stone; the side of her which had been dormant bursting into life. 

“I won’t be _taken_ anywhere, Count. I choose to come.” 

“Ha! Agatha once said something very similar...” 

“Shut up about Agatha, just for five minutes.” 

“Longer than five minutes, I hope, Zoe.” But he wasted no time in deftly undoing the rest of her shirt’s buttons and loosening the belt and waistband of her trousers. Zoe’s back arched against his touch – his hands slid over her skin firmly, pushing her trousers down to her knees, then slipping her shirt off. She reached behind her to clasp his neck where his head bent against her. 

“Why are you so warm?” He radiated heat, curled around her like a large cloak. 

“I’m always warm after a, er, meal.” He kneaded the muscles of her thighs, his thumbs slipping down to skim the delicate skin between them. “How I wish I could apply my tongue to this soft flesh, to taste you, to feel you move against my mouth. Alas, such forbidden fruit.” Abruptly, he took his hands away and Zoe felt the loss of them, tightening her own hands around his neck in frustration. 

“No, don’t stop …touch me again.” She was sure she could hear him smiling, though she had managed to keep her voice steady. 

“Oh? Like this?” And he stroked her, agonisingly slowly, the whole, long, shaking length of her; moving from her knees, up along her legs and stomach, and over her breasts, his hands pausing at the place where her heart hammered in her chest, before inching down again, his fingers threading under the waistband of her underwear and tangling in the hair there. 

“Good. I do enjoy a bit of fur. Too many of these modern girls have done away with it.” 

“You sound,” panted Zoe, “like an old relic.” 

“Age brings wisdom, experience …" 

He dipped his fingers briefly into her, dragging one over the wet nub of her clitoris and sending a jolt through Zoe which had her slamming her hands against the sides of the coffin. “Ah, there we have it.” Zoe heard him give a filthy groan as he sucked the finger which had just slid over her. “This, too, tastes _exquisite.”_ His breathing was becoming harsh, despite his attempts to appear nonchalant and he turned her head towards him to kiss her greedily, pushing his tongue into her mouth. Zoe pressed back against his erection which was now driven tightly against her knicker-clad arse, the muscles of her neck straining as she stretched to meet his hard, hot mouth. Reason was starting to abandon her. Was he glib, patronising, irritating and childish? _Yes._ Did she still feel as turned on as she had possibly ever felt? _God, yes._

In a sudden and unusually nimble move for a 500 year old with presumably limited experience of the workings of a modern bra, Dracula snapped open the clasp and slid the garment off Zoe’s shoulders, trailing his tongue along her collarbone as he went. Still, his touch was everywhere but where Zoe craved it; he alternated hard strokes down between her breasts, studiously avoiding her aching nipples and coasting his hand around the curve of her hip and into the tender skin of her inner thigh. Zoe felt she had never been more aware of every nerve ending zinging across the expanse of her body. The Count was everywhere at once, at every part of her, filling the expanse of the coffin, humming low wordless exclamations of appreciation at every new part of her he touched. Her dam was about to burst; Zoe felt the wave of her desire come roiling up out of the darkness and she hissed; 

“Just _fuck_ me, Count Dracula!” 

“Your wish is my command.” 

She heard him fumble with the zip of his trousers in a very human way, the speed of movement and unsteadiness of his breath in contrast with his smooth words. Zoe only just managed to kick off the trousers and underwear which had gathered like manacles around her ankles before Dracula pushed her leg up and slammed himself so deeply into her that her knee was forced up against the edge of the coffin. He was still for a few seconds as they both adjusted to the sudden change in sensation; Zoe compelled herself to not think about the fact she was having sex with a murderous, ancient vampire and focused instead on the feel of him, filling her completely, his hands now moving to pull slowly on her rigid nipples as he began to thrust languidly into her. She bit her lip, determined to strangle the moan which threatened to escape her mouth. 

“You Van Helsing women … what is it about you?” he breathed harshly into her ear, “I can’t get enough of you … I will never get enough of you.” 

He forced her leg up higher, angling his hips to push himself deeper in, and deeper again with each thrust. Zoe felt the buttons of his shirt embed in the skin of her back; that he was still fully clothed while she was entirely naked made her feel powerful, rather than vulnerable; the full extent of his all-too-human desire for her was all there was in the world right now, and imbued her with energy and authority. 

“Harder,” said Zoe, in a voice she had never heard herself using before. “Fuck me harder.” 

Dracula’s hands twitched convulsively on her breasts at Zoe’s words, then moved under her arms to clutch her shoulders and wordlessly, he did as he was told – as Zoe braced her foot against the coffin, he began to fuck her in earnest. The slickness of her arousal prevented his movements from being painful, as they might have been otherwise because he was not holding back now, snarling as he pummelled himself into her. 

“I want all of you,” Dracula choked out desperately. “I want your blood. I want to feel it spilling into my mouth.” 

Zoe smiled into the darkness, she knew his teeth had involuntarily lengthened, there was a bite in the hard, sucking kiss her pressed against her shoulder; not enough to break the skin, but his body was shaking with the effort of holding back from gouging deeper into her flesh, even as he continued to drive himself relentlessly into her. Zoe angled her head to expose her throat further. 

“Do it then!” she panted, taunting him. “Why don’t you drink, Count? You can almost taste it, can’t you?” 

Dracula gave a smothered groan, his façade of suave flippancy had crumbled and he was nothing but confused, brutish appetite, caught in the crossfire of both his human and vampire cravings. His teeth pressed harder against her shoulder. 

“You can’t, can you? You’re a coward!” 

Zoe knew she was humiliating him, goading him, but could not stop, even as she felt her orgasm building – radiating out from the place deep inside her that he was pounding against. She ground herself back against him, sliding her own fingers down to graze against her clitoris. He was pinching her nipples now, his fucking frenzied and reckless. 

“Scared to die!” she spat, throwing her head back against his unyielding shoulder. “Scared to live! You are nothing!” 

“I am not … nothing!” he ground out, punctuating each word with a sharp thrust. And that was enough for Zoe to finally spill out of her own mind and into the place her body wanted to take her – a long freefall of ecstasy, her thighs shaking and her heart clamouring at the barrier of her ribcage. Moments later, Dracula convulsed against her, raggedly thrusting into her a few more times with a strangely anguished cry. 

They were still and silent for quite some time afterwards. Dracula kept his arms braided around Zoe’s shoulders until her chest stopped heaving and he gently pushed her leg down into a more comfortable position. 

“Who would have thought a few well-placed insults could have _that_ effect,” he murmured thoughtfully. “God, Zoe, they stung. Touche.” 

“This was all your idea,” retorted Zoe. She began to tug her clothes up from where they had been discarded. “Help with these, will you?” 

It was a much less sensuous affair, getting the clothes back on; Zoe managed to elbow Dracula in the face several times and she was sure her knickers were on inside out, but there was no time, nor space, to remedy this. The hearse was slowing, a crackle of gravel under it wheels. Dracula hefted the huge lid of the coffin aside as easily as though it was made of polystyrene. 

“Sit up slowly,” he warned. “I imagine your blood may have pooled somewhere quite far from your head. I don’t want you fainting on me, Zoe.” 

Zoe ignored him and clambered out of the coffin. She glanced back at him, lying with his hands folded neatly behind his dark head, composure quite restored. 

“What happened in the coffin, Count Dracula, _stays_ in the coffin.” 

"...as we used to say in Wallachia," muttered Dracula. He mimed zipping across his mouth, with one elegant hand. "My lips are sealed, Zoe."


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's no "i" in team, Zoe.
> 
> Smut-free in an attempt to get back to some semblance of plot.

When Zoe stumbled out of the hearse, it was into a small courtyard – it was still very dark, and the low building which the courtyard served had no external lighting. She could just make out that it was a whitewashed stone cottage, single-storied and apparently occupying a solitary position - there certainly seemed to be no neighbouring dwellings. Zoe could hear the slow wet pulse of the sea from nearby and its smell of brine permeated the air. To say that she had lost her bearings over the last few hours would underplay quite how removed from herself she felt. 

“Master! Let me help you out!” Renfield blustered, rudely shoving past where Zoe stood, swaying slightly, as she acclimatised to not being crushed up against Dracula in a coffin. 

“Why thank you, _Frank,”_ muttered Zoe. 

Dracula batted Renfield’s obsequious hand away and stretched luxuriously to his full height as he emerged gracefully from the back of the hearse. 

“You drive like a fucking lunatic, Renfield,” growled Dracula. “I’ve had smoother rides on the back of a three wheeled potato cart with a hundred incensed villagers galloping after me.” 

“Apologies, sir...” Renfield’s face was stricken, and he shrunk away like a kicked dog. 

“Never mind that – have you equipped this place as I asked?” 

“Yes, master, entirely! Enough food – for both of you – for at least a month.” 

Dracula gazed speculatively at Zoe for a moment. 

“Shall we …?” He indicated the low, wooden door, where Renfield was already fumbling at the lock. Zoe glared suspiciously back at Dracula, distrusting his smooth politeness. She was fully expecting him to use any opportunity to refer to what had happened in the coffin, but his smile was oddly gentle. Zoe sidled past him and Renfield into the small reception hall. She was deeply, bone-shakingly tired, and having trouble staying focused on putting one foot in front of the other. 

“Ah Zoe,” Dracula’s arm was around her waist suddenly, scaffolding her as she teetered on the edge of collapse, and guiding her into a bedroom. “You’ve over-exerted yourself. Sleep,” he said quietly, with not even a hint of double entendre. He flicked on a bedside lamp and twitched the curtains closed before throwing back the quilt on the bed. 

“You’re quite the … the nursemaid, Count,” stammered Zoe, sinking onto the bed with an exhausted grunt and kicking her shoes off. 

“You forget I was once a father and a husband too, Zoe. And I recognise an overtired mortal when I see one.” 

Zoe was too tired to feel patronised, and decided not to react. She wondered vaguely how Agatha might have responded to his spontaneous reference to his time as a human. Where _was_ Agatha? Zoe found that the void left by her absence was greater than she imagined it would be, greater even than all the times she wished she could banish Agatha from her head. And apparently it led to Zoe making strange decisions whilst entombed in coffins with aroused vampires. 

“You know,” she yawned, burrowing herself into the bedclothes. “This place seems so familiar somehow. Homely.” 

Dracula paused in the doorway, nothing but a black, faceless outline, as Zoe blinked blearily up at him. He was very still, not even bothering with the pretence of breathing. 

“Hmm, what is that disgustingly sentimental human saying?” His voice was toneless and seemed to come from a great distance. “Home is where the heart is.” 

* * *

_Zoe!_ _Thank God_ _,_ _I am back!_ _Wake up, Zoe!_

Was Zoe actually _snoring_!? Agatha probed guiltily at her niece's unconscious brain, but it seemed she was so deeply asleep that there were only the faintest glimmerings of thoughts which Agatha might snatch at. She could barely contain her impatience at gleaning what had happened while she was gone and where on earth they were now. 

Agatha’s sojourn after the filing cabinet launched by Kate Bloxham at Zoe’s head had knocked Zoe out, and Agatha ever further out, had been as strange as it was unexpected. She was thoroughly confused to have been taken back to the moments after her own death, when she sank below the sea as the Demeter splintered and plummeted down alongside her. Or it had seemed that’s where she was – in truth, it was all so hazy that she might have just believed herself trapped within one of Dracula’s blood-dreams, if she hadn’t known it was impossible for him to drink Zoe's blood. This, and the fact that the egomaniac would have been unable to resist making himself star of the show, and he was conspicuously absent in the strange, watery consciousness which Agatha had briefly inhabited. So, it was not Dracula’s doing, Agatha concluded with a suppressed tinge of regret. Perhaps that would have been too easy an explanation. Still, it had allowed her time to reflect on certain aspects of Count Dracula which she had not thought of since her time interviewing Jonathan Harker… 

“Agatha?” Zoe’s voice was thick with sleep. “Where have you been?” 

_Good question, Zoe. It seems that astral travel is not beyond me either, especially after_ _the_ _metal cabinet_ _applied_ _to your head encouraged_ _my_ _journey._ _I returned to my restless resting place under the sea for a brief spell._ _It was_ _most_ _tedious!_ _How was the_ _journey to get here_ _?_ _And w_ _here are we, anyway?_

_“_ You know how mad that sounds?” Zoe tentatively put her hand to the forgotten, semi-healed wound on her temple. “We're in Scotland, apparently, not sure precisely where, as yet.” Agatha noted her avoidance of the first question, combined with Zoe’s usual ability to apply mental obfuscation to matters she didn’t wish Agatha to access. 

_No more mad than anything else, Zoe. It is extremely interesting that a physical shock sent me away from you, is it not? I suggest we keep this information to ourselves._

_“_ He already knows,” said Zoe, sitting up in bed sluggishly and pushing the covers off. “He notices when you’re not around, Agatha.” 

The first fingers of light were starting to tentatively explore the room. Agatha watched Zoe study herself in the mirror of the small dressing table near the bed. She looked dreadful – pale, eyes still bruised with tiredness, the bones of her face seemed to be trying to push through her thin skin. Agatha wondered, not for the first time, how Zoe’s illness would progress, but Zoe’s fierce privacy had always prevented her from asking. 

“Well, we have the Count,” said Zoe, quietly. “What now? We were lucky in getting him out. More lucky than I could ever have thought – that won’t happen again. The Foundation will draft in the big guns to retrieve their most prized possession.” 

_Big guns, indeed! What do they intend to do with him, Zoe? What is their aim?_

It was the first time Agatha had asked this outright and she could feel guilt pressing in on Zoe. 

“I know what _I_ intended to do – collect data, humanely, to further knowledge of him and his type. But I turned a blind eye to what the Foundation might have done with him when I was, ah, finished.” 

Agatha recognised what it cost Zoe to admit this to her. 

_Why should you care, Zoe? He is a monster – relentless, pitiless, manipulative -_ _“_

_“_ As are many humans. And yes, he is all those things, don’t you think the Foundation is more than aware of what he is and what he’s capable of. It’s not necessarily a _weakness_ to them. That he has those qualities, and the extra inducement of near-immortality, well -” 

_But how could they … surely, his destruction would be inevitable after the study of him is_ _complete_ _? All I ever wanted to do was to_ _halt_ _his advancement through society, like the virus he is._

Zoe was silent as Agatha processed what she had hinted at. That the Foundation may allow Zoe her portion of Dracula’s flesh, but he belonged to them. 

“You don’t understand the modern world, do you, Agatha?” sighed Zoe. “Good does not always overcome evil and grey areas outnumber the simple binary of black and white. Especially in science.” 

_That is far from a modern_ _notion._ _You might exclude morals from your work but I will not._

Agatha was unprepared for the flow of Zoe’s rage erupting over her like molten lava, and it carried her off in its red-hot heat. 

“Don’t you _dare_ talk to me about fucking morals! You’re not adverse to twisting things to meet your own ends either, are you _S_ _ister_ Agatha?” spat Zoe. “My whole life you were held up to me as some kind of paragon of virtue! How we all had to worship at the altar of the great and holy Sister Agatha Van Helsing – trailblazer of her time. I could never possibly measure up to you. A martyr to her cause!” 

Zoe leapt out of the bed, and stood on shaking legs, her fists curled against her thighs. Agatha could feel the uncontrollable fury surging through Zoe and she felt like a tree bending against a great storm. 

“Nothing I did – nothing - would ever be as good as Agatha. No achievement would ever be better than the heap of bones you left beneath the sea.” She gave a wild howl of laughter. “I was only admitted to the hallowed grounds of the Jonathan Harker Foundation because of Mina Murray's passed-down admiration for the Van Helsing name. You’ll never know the poison of nepotism which was not needed in the first place!” 

Agatha felt her own answering wave of anger rise up at this ungrateful child, railing against an injustice which she, Agatha, had not been responsible for. 

_And you do not talk to ME of grey areas – I inhabited grey areas_ _my_ _whole l_ _ife! I was excluded and ridiculed for my interests, a pariah even within my own family – they were relieved when I took myself off to a convent to become someone else’s problem! ‘Thank god Agatha is marrying herself off to Jesus, he’s the only one who would have her.’ Don’t you see how easy it is to venerate someone once they are conveniently dead?_

Agatha would never tell Zoe the horror she experienced as she drifted down into the sea-scoured jumble of her own bones, scattered across the floor of the ocean – the sheer terror that she would now be trapped in them, alone and forgotten. There was no veneration in that sort of living death. 

Zoe slammed her fist on the dressing table, rattling the empty perfume bottles which crowded its surface. 

“So, you were unappreciated in your time? Welcome to the club, Agatha! We have to work twice as hard for half the attention – that much hasn’t changed. At least _you_ were a novelty – who could resist a nun with a taste for the macabre? Certainly not Dracula; when you appeared on the scene, you obtained in a moment what I’d been trying to gain for days – his compliance. But don’t assume moral superiority over me for decisions I have taken, your methods are just as unethical.” 

_If you could see past the end of your stupid, stubborn, Van_ _Helsing_ _nose, you would_ _recognise that_ _you are angry at the wrong person! I have been saying_ _this_ _all along – we are on the same side!_ _You are not alone in this_ _, child._

All at once, the anger drained out of Zoe almost as quickly as it had bubbled up. She slumped back on to the bed. The brief but intense maelstrom of her rage had exhausted her already depleted energy stores. 

“It doesn’t matter. God, but I’m tired, Agatha. I made a stupid mistake while you were gone. And what have _we_ done? What will we do with him?” 

_Zoe,_ _you make_ _no mistakes with_ _Count Dracula –_ _he is_ _designed to bamboozle humans, it is an i_ _nevitability._

Agatha paused, silently urging Zoe's discomfort to dissipate. Her vulnerability was tangible and Agatha felt a surge of affection for her spiky, proud niece. 

_For now, he is contained. But if the Foundation_ _find and recapture him, he will be used as a weapon. If he r_ _eintegrates_ _himself back into society, here, or anywhere else,_ _many more people will die at his hands._

Zoe stared at herself in the mirror, a deep, scrutinising evaluation, as though she wanted to pluck Agatha out of her mind, and hold her too up to the harsh reflection. Agatha gazed silently back at Zoe, willing her to understand that _this_ was the black and white choice; that there was no room for moral ambiguity. Zoe spoke finally: 

“So we kill him before either can happen?” 

_We kill him before either can happen._

* * *

“My god!” exclaimed Zoe as she crept through the hallway of the cottage. “I _knew_ this place was familiar.” The advancing light of morning was slowly revealing more of the building into which Dracula had sequestered them. 

Agatha only gave a distracted hum in answer. 

“We came to this house on holiday when I was a child. Every year until I was twelve! How the hell did Dracula -” 

_I suspect this was_ _Renfield's_ _doing_ _._ _Despite_ _his insanity, he knows the childhood holiday home of Zoe Van_ _Helsing_ _would appeal greatly to the magpie nature of his master._ _What_ _a sentimental monster he is_ _!_

“He doesn’t strike me as the sentimental sort,” whispered Zoe as she surreptitiously opened the door of the main bedroom. 

_Really? Think, Zoe._ _What is his attachment to me, to us, but sentiment?_ _He is in love with the human condition._ _Now, hush. I believe this is the room he is lurking in_ _, like the_ _oversized bat he is._

Zoe slipped into the darkened room where the ostentatious coffin was resting on the flat-based trolley which Renfield had used to wheel it into the cottage. Agatha was surprised not to find Renfield himself curled up asleep at the foot of the coffin, like a faithful, if rabid, dog, but Zoe's prior knowledge of the cottage layout informed them that he was likely to be in the last bedroom, positioned further away from the others. 

_Dracula_ _should be thoroughly embarrassed to set foot in that_ _eyesore_ _!_ _Yet he can’t resist the lure of the tomb._

_“_ Do we really have to …?” 

_Yes, Zoe._ _There is no other way._

“Maybe he would agree to exist on the blood of donors?” 

_Don’t be ridiculous – he enjoys the_ _hunt almost as much as the feed at the end of it._

Zoe’s shoulders slumped slightly. There was resignation, but it was conflicted. 

“I … I don’t think I have the strength to drive a stake through …” 

_No,_ _no -_ _Count Dracula will meet the sun._ _And he will be formally introduced to_ _it's tender embrace_ _by us._

Zoe was silent as she manoeuvred the cumbersome casket out of the room and trundled it through the hallway to the back entrance of the cottage. She knew that instead of a garden, the smooth lawn simply sloped down to meet the remote shoreline where the peculiar white sand she had played in as a child was scattered with the equally strange pink-tinged rocks of this particular region. Beyond the beach, the restless sea, which had provided the soundtrack to Zoe's endless childhood holidays, hissed against the shingle. The great red disc of the sun was already over halfway above the hazy line of the distant horizon. The wild beauty of the place had not diminished since Zoe had last been there as a child and Agatha felt suffused with the same uncomplicated wonder which was racing through Zoe. 

“Zoe?” came a muffled, yet instantly recognisable voice. “Agatha!?” 

_Ah, the third guest for_ _our dawn party!_ _He does always like to make an entrance._

“What the hell are you up to out there?” 

_Now, Zoe!_

With a groan of misery, Zoe hefted her shoulder against the lid of the coffin and shunted it onto the ground with a dull thud. They barely had time to register Dracula's shocked face before the first tendrils of sunlight hit him and he transformed into a writhing, twisting mass of limbs, convulsing against the lining of the coffin, his voice an unintelligible howl of anguish. Zoe turned her face away in sorrow at his wretchedness. But Agatha had no such qualms and seized her chance to speak through Zoe. 

“Oh, do stop being so _dramatic_ , Count Dracula. Sit up properly and look what you fear in the face! It is going to be a beautiful day.” 

Agatha watched with deep amusement as Dracula realised that he was _not_ going to go up in a puff of smoke. He stared in child-like fascination at his own hands as they were illuminated by the clear light which bathed him. Finally, he pushed himself upright in the coffin and gazed out across the long sweep of the bay to where the sun, now fully emerged, hung in the sky like a jewel. The landscape it revealed was savagely beautiful; both desolate and intimate – the cove they were in sheltered by the bulk of surrounding mountains. 

“Agatha,” gasped Dracula, his face slack with amazement, his dark eyes screwed up against the assault of sunlight not seen for 500 years. “What did you do? It’s … so, so beautiful.” He beamed at her.

"It is time to come into the light, Count," said Agatha, smiling widely back at him.


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Well, there's nothing like a pandemic to get in the way of fic writing! It's been a while but here's chapter 10. I feel I should summarise what has happened so far as it's probably not very fresh in the mind!  
> Briefly, the Count and Agatha have unfinished business which has transcended even Agatha's death, and the Count's entrance into the modern world. She has taken up a residency in the reluctant body of her great great niece Zoe Van Helsing and together they sprung Dracula from the Harker Institute after Zoe is sacked for allowing Dracula to be freed by his addled lawyer, Renfield. They've holed up in the Scottish Highlands, where Agatha introduced Dracula to the sun. Oh, and coffin sex.

The hours which followed Dracula’s reintroduction to daylight were as peculiar as any as Zoe had witnessed so far in her strange acquaintance with the Count, and _that_ was saying something. The best she could liken it to was when she’d been forced to spend the day with a friends curious toddler; trying to stop them poking their fingers into electrical sockets and fending off endless questions. In fact, Zoe wondered if he hadn’t actually, finally, gone quite mad. He cut quite a bizarre figure, pacing up and down the crackling shingle of the beach after he’d tumbled clumsily out of the coffin like a newly hatched goose. Moreover, he seemed to quite forget that had Agatha’s hunch been wrong, he would have disappeared in a puff of acrid smoke. 

“Look at it! Agatha, Zoe - no _really_ look! When was the last time you properly witnessed a sunrise – ah, you humans are such spoiled children! It’s been 450 years!” Here, he interrupted himself with an astounded guffaw. “450! Oh, she’s amazing, is she not... all this time, I thought she was the death of me.” He turned his face up towards the somewhat watery rays of the Scottish sun as it tried to burn away the last of the sea mist caught in the bay. He waded partially into the surf, arms outstretched before him, as though to greedily gather the light towards himself. 

“Come! Come!” A beckoning arm flicked impatiently at Zoe, who folded her own arms truculently and shook her head. “Look at this, you must!” 

_Please indulge him, Zoe. It’s rather amusing._

Zoe found herself clattering bad-temperedly through sand-stinging waves towards a man in the grip of what could only be described as sun-lust, as truly delighted with the world as a child might be. 

“A man,” mused Zoe to herself, aware it was the first time she had thought of him that way - even during their all-too-human interaction in the coffin there had still been the fiend driving the encounter. As though his rediscovery of light had somehow given him back a soul, or some human fragment of one. 

_Mmmm, indeed. He walks as a child of the light,_ Agatha intoned in only the way a sardonic Dutch nun could. 

A large part of Zoe’s irritation was the feeling of being manipulated; by Agatha _and_ by Dracula. Manipulated by Agatha into carrying out the grunt-work of getting Dracula into his precious sunlight, without the added knowledge that it wouldn’t actually kill him, and manipulated by Dracula in, well, just about every way possible. Was everyone just a pawn? 

_Manipulated, Zoe? A tad harsh and dramatic surely._

All too late did Zoe remember that very few of her thoughts were actually private, except when she made a great effort to conceal them. But she had no further time feel annoyed as she was suddenly being swung off her feet by an elated, and possibly demented, vampire and her heart was ecstatically bumping against her ribcage like a wild animal, the landscape of her childhood whirling around her as the sun’s fingers began to fully illuminate it. God, she actually felt - 

“Zoe, I feel _alive_!” 

And there it was; the feeling that Zoe, dying of cancer, also had coursing through her, accurately expressed by the Undead, or perhaps the a-little-bit-less-Undead. Amazing what a bit of sun can achieve. Zoe could not help the unexpected screech of laughter which bubbled out of her mouth as she landed knees first in the shallows. Then Dracula was kneeling beside her, panting with joy and lifting hands full of colourful pebbles and blue whorled mussel shells from the sea bed. 

“Why do things look so different in daylight?” he murmured, his eyes studying the handful of what Zoe’s father always called ‘sea-rubbish’, with the intensity of a religious zealot. He turned the same gaze onto Zoe and she felt herself recoil slightly, a reluctance to meet his eyes, as though he might see some hidden thing there. 

“And you too. Details revealed. Perhaps not so like Agatha in the sunlight.” He leaned in and ran his mouth along her seasalt encrusted jaw. “Oh, look at you.” His eyes were creased with a genuinely joyous smile which also revealed his jagged teeth. Zoe wondered, what did he see? Not the purplish circles under her eyes, the lines starting to deepen as pain began to insinuate itself back into her body? Meanwhile, the sea had ensured that his shirt clung to his chest in a quite beguiling way; Zoe was determined not to reenact the pond scene from _Pride and Prejudice_ , since Mr Darcy was almost certainly not a murderous vampire, and she was no Elizabeth Bennett. At least it took her mind off her own mortality. 

_And there he is! c_ rowed Agatha. _He can’t help himself._ Zoe gave a shiver, which was not entirely down to the cold of the North Sea infiltrating the very marrow of her bones; however, sun or not, this was still water of the northern hemisphere, not some balmy Mediterranean inlet. She stood up and began wading the few metres to the shoreline. 

“How did you know?” he called after her. “That I would live?” 

“ _I_ didn’t,” said Zoe. “It was Agatha, of course. It seems you believe in your own myths a little too much, Count.” 

“Is that so?” he muttered thoughtfully and turned back to his newly revealed horizon. 

A hazy figure on the near horizon slowly resolved itself into Renfield, standing stock still in shock, a piece of buttered toast halfway up to his mouth and a coffee cup dangling from his other hand, its dregs trickling onto the sand. He stared, mouth open, at the sight of his beloved lord, drenched in both water and sunlight, studying seashells and waxing lyrical about the blackberry bushes which grew in the sunlight in the grounds of his castle as a boy. 

“How the mighty have fallen,” said Agatha triumphantly out of the side of her mouth to Renfield as she and Zoe swept past, dripping water, sarcasm and seaweed in their wake. 

* * *

Persuading Dracula out of the sunlight and back into the cottage was problematic. He had spent a long time studying various things: from the minutiae of grains of sand on the beach, and the coarse grass that studded the edge of the beach, to the huge bulk of the blue-tinged mountains that surrounded them. He was so enthralled, it was almost impossible to get through to him, like the worst bore tripping on Ecstasy. Finally, Zoe had exclaimed, exasperated: “Look, you’re going to get _sunburnt!_ And that never happens in Scotland.” Incongruously, her and Renfield, who was ineffectually wringing his hands nearby, caught one another's eye and both dissolved into helpless, hysterical laughter at the thought of a vampire with sunburn. At this slight on his dignity, Dracula finally seemed to snap out of his dream-like state, and stalked past them both into the cottage. 

Now they sat together round the table in the small kitchen, the comfortable domestic rumble of a dishwasher in the background. Dracula cradled a delicate crystal glass of blood as Renfield explained its origins like the best sommelier. 

“… a brain surgeon, Master. Not just any old common brain surgeon, though – top one in the country.” He beamed proudly. “Though he has some _interesting_ proclivities, so obtaining his blood was a simple enough transaction.” Renfield turned to Zoe. “Did youknow that surgeons have some of the highest levels of psychopathy out of all the occupations. This one? No fear. None. No empathy either. People are just irrelevant!” 

“Yes,” said Zoe drily. “Sounds familiar.” 

It was obvious Dracula was not really listening though, as he sipped the microwave-warmed blood with a genteel shudder. He turned thoughtful eyes on Zoe, a long, considered gaze. 

“How ill are you?” he asked finally, spinning the slim stem of the glass between thumb and forefinger. 

Zoe could feel Agatha jump to life; she had been curiously silent since they had all trooped into the cottage to change into dry clothes. Zoe had learned to if not distrust, to at least be wary of Agatha’s silences. 

“The dying kind of ill,” stated Zoe baldly. “As you know.” As Renfield twittered sympathetically beside her, Agatha hissed: _Don’t tell him_ _any more_ _!_

“Imminent?” He levelled a look at her which was at least honest in the way it assessed her. 

_Wouldn’t he like to know!_

“Oh, it doesn’t matter, Agatha,” sighed Zoe. “I think if this bloody disease was a race, I would be getting near to the last lap, Count. ‘No further treatment possible, palliative only’. That’s a quote.” 

“Agatha prefers I’m not privy to this information. She likes her secrets. She forgets I’ve drunk her blood.” 

“No shit, Sherlock,” said Zoe, closing her eyes and taking a deep breath as Renfield giggled stupidly. It was funny how talking about it seem to activate the pain, deep-seated and free-ranging in her body, so formless that Zoe suspected it was actually mental pain as much as physical. _I am going to die._

_Not yet! Not yet, Zoe._ _There is still work to be done._

Zoe smiled at Agatha’s belief that unfinished business alone would allow Zoe to repel death as it had allowed Agatha to transcend it. _You overestimate me, Aunt._

“I too have secrets,” announced Dracula. Amazingly, there was no smugness in his tone, just plain statement. “You’re not the only one who took my blood at the Institute.” He shrugged at Zoe’s disbelief. “What, you’re not surprised are you?” 

“No-one else was authorised!” 

“I doubt there’s an ethics committee to refer to, is there? Our own, ah, _experiments_ were hardly above board either.” He smirked. 

“Who?” demanded Zoe. “Why?” 

“Your cabinet hurling friend, Bloxham. Though her way of extracting it was much less fun than yours, it has to be said. She seems to bear a grudge for the thumb incident.” 

“Why didn’t you tell me this sooner!” blurted Zoe, her mind spinning with the information. 

Zoe could feel Agatha’s rage building. 

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe the small matter of the threat of imminent death from every corner? A vampire has to look out for himself, I’m afraid. If only I knew about the sun thing then! I would have unleashed holy hell. It’s really quite embarrassing how cowed she kept me.” He held out his drained glass to Renfield. “Take this, then bring my coffin in.” 

Just in time, Renfield left the room as Agatha burst forth with a string of dutch expletives. 

“Who would have thought an immortal would be such a coward?” she spat. “Always the fear of death, Count Dracula, and the only life you value is your own. Snivelling monster!” 

Dracula laid a hand over where his heart would be in mock shock. 

“Says the nun who returned from the dead just to prove me wrong. Such hypocrisy. You think hijacking the body of your dying niece persuades me that _you_ are ready to shuffle off this mortal coil? No, no, no – I think none of us three are quite ready to die yet. And you can’t deny we have a connection.” He smiled widely. “You haven’t killed me, Agatha, yet you’ve had ample opportunity. Why? So many times you could have slipped a stake through my sternum.” 

Agatha faltered. 

“You … you are a useful subject. Of your kind. The source of a contagion must always be isolated and studied. Understood.” 

“Don’t get me wrong,” continued Dracula as though she hadn’t spoken. “Back in the old days, you had a proper murderous spirit. My God, you were determined. But now…” He paused, tapped the table. “I do believe you’ve mellowed with age. I think you actually _like_ me!” 

“Rubbish!” retorted Agatha. “You are alive now because we are going to prevent Zoe from dying. The blood taken from you at the Institute was to be used for the purpose of extending life or renewing life, or both! I’m sorry Zoe, you couldn’t hide that from me.” Zoe floundered like a trapped bird under the sheer weight of Agatha’s will. “They also plan an army of vampires! We have to stop them. No, Zoe, do not fool yourself that it is medical benevolence which drives them – “ 

Dracula laughed. 

“An army of me? And why should I prevent that? When _I_ try to reproduce, there’s all that tedious waiting around to see if they have the strength to survive. Nailing them into boxes and so forth. And they always go insane. It’s so bo-oring! A production line of brides sounds perfect.” 

Agatha leaned over the table, knuckles pressed into the wood and said softly: “Really? You would be milked like some kind of farm animal? No say in who gets to join your ranks: only those rich enough, mad enough or unintelligent enough. No nuance, no sophistication? No control, Count Dracula.” She slid a finger under his lip and lifted it to reveal his teeth. “And you certainly wouldn’t be allowed to use these.” 

Agatha watched Dracula’s eye twitch as her point drove home, the egotist in him unable to not respond. His teeth were lengthening with that peculiar crackle she had heard before. 

“No, you are quite right. That would be an abomination.” His nostrils flared. “You know, I swear I can smell Agatha’s blood. I would know it anywhere.” He gave a soft groan. “Agatha, it’s been so long … we could … for old time’s sake?” He slipped his hand under her top and gently squeezed her breast. 

“Ugh,” cried Zoe, swatting his hand away. “I am _here_ you know! And I have no intention of doing _that_ again, nor going after the Jonathan Harker Institute.” 

_Really Zoe_ _? Y_ _ou would leave what you started in their hands?_ _It will be_ _carnage. You feel no sense of responsibility?_

Dracula chuckled. “I imagine Agatha is trying to persuade you otherwise. _I_ am up for it, as they say. Come on, are you game?” 

_Van_ _Helsings_ _never shirk their responsibilities!_

Zoe threw her hands up. 

“For God’s sake! Do I have a choice? But there will be rules, Count.” 

“Let me guess,” he rolled his eyes like a teenager. “No eating people? You expect me to behave like a neutered lapdog?” 

“We expect you to behave like a civilised person, as you once were, presumably. A member of the human race,” snapped Zoe. 

Agatha’s cup, already full with the knowledge of Zoe’s consent, overflowed once more at her use of ‘we'. 

“There is a supply of blood here,” Zoe indicated the fridge, full of packets of blood. “Portable and given freely. There’s no need for anything else.” 

“Wouldn’t we all be terribly boring if we only took that which we need.” Dracula held his hands up. “OK, OK, I agree.” 

Renfield had returned to the kitchen and looked from face to face with barely concealed excitement, scenting the sense of purpose in the air like a bloodhound. 

“What? What did I miss?” 

“Renfield, you will need to take that ridiculous hearse back to _civilisation_ _,_ and get us a _c_ _ivilised_ car, for _civilised_ people. We have a task to carry out.” Dracula rose gracefully and rubbed his hands together. “I take it you know where Bloxham lives?” 

“You know, this isn’t some kind of Thelma and Louise roadtrip,” retorted Zoe. “I have no intention of driving off the cliff edge of reason with a maniac vampire and an already dead nun. I intend to die, drugged to the eyeballs, in my own bed.” 

But no-one was listening. 

“I think Inverness is the nearest place, sire,” Renfield was saying. “I’m sure I can get a decent vehicle there. But you will be left alone with the Van Helsings while I’m gone … is that a problem, do you trust them?” 

_Pah!_ _Does he trust US?!_

“We have an understanding and I’m sure we will keep ourselves occupied.” He smiled widely. 

Zoe turned to the window and looked out across the bay. In the distance, she could almost make out her chance of a comfortable death fading into nothingness, like a small boat swallowed by the sea. In fact, the thought of death at all began to recede from her mind – there was work to be done. 

**Author's Note:**

> This just fell out of my brain. 
> 
> Praise be to Claes Bang and Dolly Wells.
> 
> Comments succour me ;)


End file.
